


a world above water

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Cinderella AU, Corporal Punishment, Dean is bisexual and no one cares, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Falling In Love, False Identity, Fantasy setting, First Time, Happily Ever After, I think it's melancholy though, M/M, Modern day language because I can't imagine Dean speaking formally, Pining, amazing art by kamicom, fairytale, fairytale AU, made-up fairytale universe, sap, unrealistic timeframe to fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel’s hope for freedom is threatened by a chance encounter with the Crowned Prince of Lawrence, who is trying to avoid an arranged marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by _Ever After_ , a retelling of the Cinderella story. Beta read by [Vera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera) and [Jad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jad). 
> 
> Thank you to kamicom for the fantastic happy art! [art masterpost](http://kamicom.livejournal.com/5999.html)
> 
>  **Caution:** _Ever After_ takes place in Renaissance-era France. This story uses a typical but entirely made-up fairytale setting, replete with horses and a castle, but retains the movie’s class system that includes royalty, nobility, commoners, and servants that can be sold between households. There's no homophobia in this fic, but there is on-page corporeal punishment and a verbal threat of sexual assault in the last chapter.

"A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?" _Ever After_

Under a tree in the orchard, Castiel stretched his arms and legs and winced at the twinge in his lower back. He dug a thumb into it, yawning toward the clouds. He’d been up half the night with their horse, struck down by colic, catching just a few hours of rest in the stable, up and in the kitchen to prepare breakfast as soon as the rooster crowed.

Hannah needed the extra sleep. She worked twice as hard since Anna left two months ago, and Naomi had made it clear she wouldn’t be replaced. Hannah wore her exhaustion in shadows beneath her eyes.

She’d scoffed when she found Castiel at the sink that morning, still put off by his presence in her kitchen even after nearly ten years. She’d shooed him out the door and taken the breakfast trays up herself, so he’d seen to his chores: cleaning the stable, scattering chicken feed, weeding the garden. The chores had taken less than an hour, and since Hannah wasn’t likely to allow him back inside until lunch, he’d taken a basket and gone for apples.

Lawrence was a flat, sprawling country separated from the ocean by a western mountain range. To the east lay Callaway, a combative nation of hunters; to the west, the sea-faring kingdom of Campbell. Lawrence’s climate was temperate, plentiful with forests and lakes. Winters were cold and harsh, but summertime was pleasant. Castiel preferred that time of year, when the land buzzed with life and he could escape the household for the woods on a hot night.

The orchard stood a fair distance from the manor, offering up its first fruit of the season. The walk took Castiel several minutes, even at his quick pace. It was late August, the height of summer, and today would be humid because of the unseasonably high rainfall. He’d already sweated through his shirt, which clung to his lower back and underarms, but he wouldn’t be seen in the orchard.

It was a few degrees cooler beneath the apple trees. He slipped off his shoes and tangled his toes in the grass, inhaling the faintly sweet air. The ground was damp; his clothes would be soiled when he returned home, but he didn’t care. His appearance was a constant source of amusement for his step-brother, Gabriel, who ribbed Castiel about his dirt-covered hands and face. But it was an affirmation to his step-mother and step-sister, who had viewed him as inferior since the day they met.

He only had to wait a few more weeks. At the end of summer, he would be twenty-one, and Naomi had implied countless times that she would grant him his freedom then, if he’d earned it. Castiel had worked toward no other goal, certain he’d never given her a reason to renege on her promise.

He trailed a finger along the lip of the basket. Hannah had said his mother had woven it when Castiel was an infant, not long before her death. Castiel and his father lived alone for eight years. When he was nine, his father had gone away on business and came home with a new wife: a striking woman from Campbell with dark hair and light eyes, skin aged by the sea. Her hands spoke of years of manual labor before an advantageous marriage to her late husband, the Baron of Eden. His death had left her a title and two children, a life of debt.

The five of them had lived together for a little over a year. Despite some tension, Castiel had been thrilled to have a family. But just fourteen months after the marriage, his father disappeared on a trade route and was presumed dead. Naomi had turned to Castiel, only a child, for help with the household. It wasn’t fair, but at such a young age he had no recourse and the manor was his only home. He’d happily served it in his father’s memory.

Little by little, Naomi had stripped him of his former life as a merchant’s son. First went his clothes, too fine to wear in the garden or on his knees scrubbing the floor, so Gabriel had taken them. Castiel tended house in clothing that had been his father’s, salvaged from the mending pile, cinching them with rope and belts until he grew into them. They’d worn to rags that he learned to patch with Hannah’s assistance.

Within a year, Naomi had given his bedroom to his step-sister Lucy, so Castiel moved into the attic: a long, drafty space with sloping ceilings and an uneven wood floor. It groaned and creaked when he walked across it, making it impractical to be out of bed at night. The roof leaked whenever it rained, so he often slept in the kitchen by the fire when it was cold, or in the stable, or in the closest stretch of forest on a hot night. To fill the quiet hours, he read and re-read books from his father’s library. He kept one concealed beneath an attic floorboard, rarely touched for fear of discovery: his father’s Bible, Castiel’s only possession.

By thirteen, he knew that his dream of becoming a soldier in the king’s army was dashed. Their debts insurmountable and the household degraded, Naomi had dismissed the staff, retaining only Anna, Castiel, and Hannah. The hay fields lay dormant, the orchard untended. Castiel’s pride was the garden. He’d helped in it since early childhood and had a talent for eking plants from the land. It wasn’t ideally situated for growing crops, receiving only a few hours of sunlight a day, but the soil was rich. It yielded small but healthy plants, and they took what grew to market. Along with the sale of pigs and eggs from chickens who plodded between the potato hills and beans, they earned enough to scrape by.

Castiel ate a fallen apple for breakfast, mindful of the bruising. It was mealy, the flesh a little dry, but tasted fine—better than another breakfast of stale bread. He tossed the core a distance to keep the flies away and folded his arms beneath his head, closing heavy eyes against the temporary luxury of sunlight. Naomi wouldn’t miss him for a while yet.

The pounding of hooves startled him awake. His entire back and legs were soaked with sweat, and the sun had shifted positions in the sky, reaching over the treetops. It was close to midday; he must have slept for a few hours.

Scrambling to his knees, Castiel gathered apples from the ground into the basket—he’d better have something to show for his absence. He stood to pick more from the tree, cupping each apple gently and angling his wrist until it came off with a quiet snap. When his father was still alive, they’d had enough hands for a proper harvest, but most of this year’s crop would go to waste or become pig slop.

The hooves grew louder. Castiel kept his head ducked as five members of the royal guard rode through the orchard. He recognized them from the gilded emblem on their tabards: the leaping antelope of the House of Winchester. Prince Samuel must have escaped the palace grounds again. Rumors circulated the marketplace of an undesirable romance with a commoner, but since he didn’t stand to inherit the throne, the king had done little to thwart it.

The thrilling news was that the king had just struck a marriage treaty with the Queen of Callaway. Dean, the Crowned Prince of Lawrence, was to marry Her Royal Highness Joanna Elizabeth—an arrangement (if local gossip could be believed) the prince resented. There was to be a masquerade ball within a month’s time, where the engagement would be formally announced. It couldn’t come fast enough; Lucy had spoken of nothing else.

Castiel picked enough apples to fill the basket, then heaved it against his stomach. He’d just begun the walk home when a lone set of hooves caught his ear, accompanied by a man’s shout ordering the horse to run faster. Castiel stayed close to the base of a tree as the rider approached. The horse was theirs: a spirited mare called Lincoln, only a filly when his father died, full-grown now and light gold. On top of her was the thief with his hand in her mane, heels tight into her sides.

“Dammit, go!”

Castiel endured many things in the course of a day, but he wouldn’t stand for the theft of his father’s horse—the only one they had left. He set down the basket, scooped a fallen apple from the ground, and pitched it at the rider. It grazed his cloak, but the next apple found its mark, striking the man in the forehead. It startled him enough that he shouted and spooked the horse. She threw him, and with a snort, trotted past them both into the woods.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” the man cursed, getting to his feet. He furiously knocked dirt and leaves from his clothes. Castiel struck him with another apple and another, forcing the man to shield his face with his arms and yell, “Will you—hey, stop that!”

“You’re a thief,” Castiel spit out and threw another.

“My horse slipped a shoe!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to mine.”

“Look, pal—”

“I knocked you off with an apple,” Castiel said. “I have a whole basket and excellent aim. You should show me some respect.”

“Respect, huh?”

The man lowered his arms. Castiel had never seen him before. His handsome face twisted in a scowl, flushed pink from exertion along his cheeks. He was roughly Castiel’s age, with light brown hair that glinted in the sunlight and richly embroidered clothing. There was hardly any mud on his boots. The man rearranged his shirt and cloak, which fell behind his shoulders and revealed the Winchester emblem and crest of the royal family.

It was one of the princes, though he wasn’t certain which one. Castiel’s error dropped like a rock in his stomach. Assault on a member of nobility was punishable by exile, but an assault on royalty could mean execution. He fell to his knees and directed his eyes to the ground.

“Forgive me, your highness,” he begged, picturing himself gathering fishing nets for the remainder of his life. It was grueling work but better than death. He kept his posture supplicating, head bowed in submission, the back of his neck exposed. The perfect opening for a sword. Castiel sunk his fingers into the soil and prayed for mercy.

“Shit,” the prince muttered. “Look, can we just pretend this didn’t happen?”

“I beg your pardon?” Castiel asked, afraid to raise his eyes.

The prince dug in his saddle bag and tossed a bag of coins to the ground in front of Castiel. They clinked against each other enticingly, but Castiel didn’t dare reach for it. He saw the sun reflected in the prince’s polished leather boots when he stepped nearer.

“You never saw me. Got it?”

“Yes, your highness,” Castiel murmured and peered up through his lashes. The prince licked his lips and laughed humorlessly.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got another horse somewhere.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Awesome. It’s one hell of a walk back in this heat. Thanks for that.”

“She likely stopped. She’ll come, if you cluck for her.”

The prince regarded him for a breath, then shrugged. He stooped down and took an apple from the basket.

“Thanks,” he said, though it lacked sincerity, and was gone into the woods after the horse.

Castiel waited to stand up until he couldn’t hear the prince’s footsteps any longer. He ran back to the manor with the apples, coins ringing with hope.


	2. Chapter 2

The horse had stopped to graze in a clearing, just as the servant had said. Dean approached her cautiously and clucked twice. She lifted her head to look at him. A long blade of grass stuck over her lip. She didn’t run when he approached and resumed chewing when he patted her flank and remounted.

Dean squeezed with his heels to coax her into a walk, pointing her toward the palace though she pulled with her head in the opposite direction. He couldn’t blame her; he didn’t want to return home either. He should seize the opportunity to turn around, ride for Campbell, but the mare was old. It was unlikely she’d survive to the border, let alone on the mountain roads.

The news of this arranged marriage had aroused anger he hadn’t felt since his mother’s death nearly twenty years ago. He was already bound to the throne because of a bloodline, but now he was expected to marry a stranger on top of it?No way. He’d choose Hell over a total lack of control of his life. Dean had the option to abdicate, refuse the marriage outright, but he couldn’t force the crown on Sam. He’d found a girl he loved in the nearest village and was studying the law. Dean’s life had been prescribed since birth, but Sam had a chance at real happiness.

Dean only wanted a few days to himself, a little breathing room—an impossibility within the palace. He’d never slept without guards posted outside his door. There was always someone watching. He’d been intent on riding straight through the night to Campbell, certain his mother’s people would grant him temporary sanctuary. But a few miles in, his horse had slipped a shoe, leaving him with a two-hour walk in search of a replacement ride. The guard had probably been out all morning searching for him, as soon as they found his bedroom empty. He ought to order the farrier fired or at least put into the stocks for a few days.

Dean didn’t see the guard when he rode over the bridge and through the palace gate. Relieved that they were still out, he rode back to the stables and turned the horse over to Bobby with instructions that it be well looked after. He’d return it later, he promised, but right now he needed sleep. Bobby grunted a complaint but took the reins and led the horse away. Dean leaned over Baby’s stall door. He gave her the apple he’d been carrying and kissed her nose as she ate it, scratching the whiskers on her chin before he headed inside.

He couldn’t avoid the noble men and women who addressed him on the walk from the stable to the courtyard. He bid them polite hellos but hurried inside and upstairs to his room, past the guards, and collapsed face-first on the bed. Someone had replaced the sheets in his absence.

When Dean was seconds from blissful unconsciousness, Sam cleared his throat from the doorway.

“What?” Dean grunted into the pillow.

“How far did you make it?”

“Not far enough.” He rolled onto his back. “Is dad pissed?”

“What do you think? He thought you’d been kidnapped until they found the sheets. Nice work.”

“Thanks.”

“He threatened to put bars on your windows until the wedding.”

Dean snorted and dug a finger into his eye. “Where is he?”

“Meeting about the treaty with Callaway. I wanted to make sure you ate.”

“I had an apple.”

Sam raised one eyebrow. “Voluntarily?”

“Shut up.” Dean hid his face in his arms.

“I can’t believe you ran off. Are you really this upset about the engagement?”

“Why don’t you go bother your girlfriend so I can get my four hours?”

“She’s working,” Sam said smugly.

“Progressive.”

“You know, there are days I wish I had your problem. I found the person I want to marry but can’t. You’re getting married and you don’t even want to.”

“Nope,” Dean said. “What do you think he’d do if I refused to show up?”

“Do you really think Benny’s going to let you out of his sight after this? He’ll walk you down the aisle, Dean.”

“Everyone’s got a price.”

“Sure,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Dean slept for an hour, until he was roused by voices just outside his door and the furious stomp of his father’s boots. He considered escaping through the window again, but there wasn’t time to fashion a rope from the sheets to rappel down. He could try and scale the wall with his hands and feet, but he didn’t have Sam’s experience with sneaking out. They’d have no trouble getting him up an aisle with two broken legs and no way to run.

“He’s asleep, your highness—” Dean heard a guard protest.

John threw the door open and stormed to the side of the bed. Dean cracked an eye and looked up into his red face. Benny, his personal guard, stood just inside the door with his shoulders back and patently avoided Dean’s gaze.

“Where were you?” John demanded. His voice was hoarse, clothing wrinkled, eyes wrung with heavy circles. He hadn’t slept. Dean sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He’d never removed his boots.

“Needed to clear my head,” he answered, bending down to loosen the laces.

“The next time you need to clear your head, you’ll do it within these walls. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean...” John rubbed his signet ring. The black band read _Non timebo mala_ —I will fear no evil. It would sit on Dean’s hand one day. “You know what this marriage contract means for Lawrence. You have an obligation to your people.”

“Marrying a total stranger.”

“Your mother and I were happy.”

Dean swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “Easy to say when she’s been dead twenty years.”

John’s expression darkened. “You watch your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled, but John just shook his head.

“You’re twenty-four years old. You were born by the time I was your age. I’ve been lenient. I haven’t put pressure on you to marry until now, but you’ve had enough time. Your people need stability. This isn’t unreasonable.”

“We’re talking about my life!”

“ _Your_ life belongs to this country. For god’s sake, you’re going to be king.”

“Yeah? What if I don’t want to be?”

“Close the door,” John barked at Benny. “I will speak with my son alone.”

Benny raised his eyebrows but obeyed and backed out of the room. The door thudded shut behind him. Expecting a fight, Dean was surprised when his father instead sat on the bed next to him and braced himself with a hand on each knee.

“When you went missing, I suspected Callaway. I was scared half to death when I thought they had you.”

Dean fit his teeth together and swallowed.

“Look. I understand what you’re feeling. I had the same reaction when I learned about my betrothal to your mother, but that’s how it works, Dean. You’re the crowned prince, and there are things expected of you in exchange for that power. Certain obligations. This idea of love, it’s...a fairytale.”

“So I give up control of my life. Just like that.”

“You make it sound like a punishment. This is your role. You’ve had your dalliances, but you’ve never kept any for longer than a few months. If I’d believed there was someone you actually cared for, I might’ve been persuaded to permit it, but when’s the last time you had anyone serious?”

“What if I did?”

John shook his head. “It’s a moot point. The treaty is signed.”

“No, what if I had somebody?” Dean pressed.

John studied him for a few seconds before hiding a yawn in his hand. “I’m going to bed. We’ll talk about this later,” he said, rising. He walked to the door and knocked twice for Benny to open it.

He addressed Dean a final time over his shoulder, without turning around. “The mask is two weeks from now. If you’re so determined to find love, you have until then to present an alternative to me. But come midnight, either you announce your engagement or I do it for you.”

Hannah’s mouth was agape when Castiel tipped the coins onto the counter.

“Where on earth did you get those?” she whispered, eyes darting to the staircase that led upstairs into the household. The way was clear.

“From an angel,” Castiel said. He removed a blemished apple from the basket and set it aside. Naomi would reject it, but it would make a good lunch. “Or a demon. It doesn’t matter. Do you think it’s enough to ensure Anna’s release?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” Hannah laid a hand on his arm. “I heard yesterday in the marketplace. She’s been sold, Castiel. She’s bound for Campbell this afternoon.”

“But surely, if we bring enough to pay off the debt—”

From upstairs, Naomi called Castiel’s name. He bit off his statement and smoothed his shirt with twitching fingers.

“I’d better go.”

“You’re a mess,” Hannah said, straightening his hair. She rubbed a spot of dirt from his cheek with her apron and gestured to the coins. “Hide those before she sees them.”

He gathered the coins into the bag and hid it behind the stack of firewood; no one would look there in all this heat. He placed apples in a carved wood bowl and carried them up the stairs.

Naomi, Gabriel, and Lucy were seated in the dining room, just finishing lunch. Naomi’s back was to him. She wore gray. Hannah had arranged her hair, pinned artfully up from her neck, secured with a gold clip he’d never seen before. She’d been spending their money again.

Lucy smirked when he entered. Her blonde hair fell past her shoulders, partially concealing a string of pearls that had belonged to Castiel’s mother. Her dress was red. Castiel set the bowl of apples on the table, and she reached for one, making a show of bringing it to her mouth.

Gabriel winked. Castiel had always liked him. He was friendly, sometimes helping Castiel with his chores or covering for him when he overslept. He was the only one in the household who shared Castiel’s passion for reading, borrowing books Castiel recommended from his father’s library. Gabriel often left food on his plate, which Castiel ate hidden behind the scrap pile. He’d done it since they were young, whenever he’d pinch Castiel’s side and declare him too skinny. It was thanks to Gabriel he had grown up strong, and Naomi had put his muscles to work.

She regarded him now with a pitying expression, taking him by the wrist and turning him to scrutinize his rumpled appearance, his wet clothes.

“Where were you?”

“The horse escaped,” he lied. “I tried to chase it down.”

“Oh, Castiel.” she sighed, eyebrows drawn together. Her grip was so tight, it was painful. “Why do you insist on bringing shame on this house?”

Castiel blushed but offered no defense. He worried his sleeve and wished he’d put on a clean shirt before coming up. Lucy didn’t bother to conceal her delight at his discomfort, smiling more broadly the hotter his face became. Gabriel grabbed an apple for himself and chewed with his mouth wide open. Naomi released Castiel’s wrist and sat forward.

“Gabriel, if you behave like that, you’ll never be permitted in the palace.”

“We’re not going to the palace,” Lucy groused. “Just that huntress from Callaway.”

“It’s only an engagement. Nothing is finalized yet,” Naomi said, emptying her glass. “There’s still time.”

“The mask is already planned,” Lucy argued. “We haven’t even been invited.”

“We will be, and we will make sure the prince realizes what he’s missing.”

Gabriel quirked an eyebrow. “You actually think Lucy’s got a better shot than the Princess of Callaway?”

Castiel forgot himself and huffed laughter at the idea of Lucy and the arrogant crowned prince. Naomi turned unfeeling eyes on him.

“Don’t you have chores?”

He welcomed the dismissal, hurrying to clear their plates and leave the room. Gabriel had left him a piece of chicken and half a roll, which Castiel ate in the garden and examined the bean plants. They were doing well this year. The frequent rain had helped, and a tree had fallen during the winter, allowing more sunlight than usual. He finished eating and brushed off his hands, then helped train a tendril along the pole. The beans would likely produce for another two weeks—a month, if he was lucky.

Someone cleared his throat, a familiar voice that made the corner of his mouth lift in a smile. “It’s safe,” Castiel said without looking up. “They’re inside.”

Balthazar stepped out from behind a stack of hay. It was the color of his hair, which he wore too long at the sides, hidden beneath a flat cap. He was an earl’s son, a childhood friend since his family relocated from the northeast and settled in the south of Lawrence. Unlike their neighbors, he’d never shunned Castiel after his change in station. He was eight years older but unmarried, and seemingly uninterested in the institution, filling his days with mischief and decadence.

“Your situation is _so_ depressing, Cassie,” Balthazar declared, picking his way around a pile of manure. His tailored breeches and tabard made Castiel acutely aware of how threadbare his own clothing was.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Out for a walk. Anything new?”

“No. Well, actually, I met one of the princes this morning.”

“What? Which one?”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I saw the royal crest on his clothes.”

“What did he look like?” Balthazar asked, snapping a bean from an obliging vine. He bit into it with relish and Castiel thought.

“He was...good looking, but arrogant.”

Balthazar chuckled. “Then it was the crowned prince. Was he about your height?”

“I suppose. I was on the ground.”

“Samuel, the younger one, is quite tall, and you’d never describe him as arrogant. He’s as nice as they come. Where was this?”

“In the orchard. He stole—” Castiel paused and swallowed, correcting himself. “ _Borrowed_ our horse. I knocked him off with an apple.”

Balthazar opened his eyes wider and spoke around a mouthful of beans. “And he didn’t have you arrested?”

“He was alone. He paid me to stay quiet. I don’t think he wanted anyone to know he was out of the palace. It’s a lot of money. I’m going to use it to get Anna back.”

“Of course you are.” Balthazar snickered. He motioned to the stains on Castiel’s pants and shirt. “Are you planning to march into the royal court like that?”

Castiel studied his palms. “I was hoping that I could borrow your father’s clothes, unless you would go for me.”

“And deny you the pleasure? Assaulting the nobility, dressing above your station—are there any other crimes we can commit today? Oh! We could stage a raid on the weaponry.”

Castiel frowned. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Balthazar swatted his head. “Of course I will, darling. Can you get away now?”

Castiel glanced up at the windows, but there was no one watching them. With any luck, Naomi would receive a social call and be preoccupied for the early afternoon. “I think so.”

“Good. Meet me at my house when you can. I’ll get you cleaned up.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was two hours before Castiel could get away. Part of the fence surrounding the pig sty collapsed and required immediate repair. After he wrestled the pigs back inside, he helped Hannah with the laundry. They hung it to dry. Castiel retrieved the coin purse from its hiding place and tucked it in his belt. Hannah hugged him warmly.

“Good luck. If they ask about you, I’ll make something up.”

He was afraid of being seen from the back window cutting across the field, so Castiel sneaked up the side of the manor and ran out the main drive. He kept to to the side so he was out of view, walking at a leisurely pace once he reached the road, arms swinging freely at his sides.

Balthazar’s father was an earl. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but he held a title. It was nearly as good as money, so the pair of them lived well. Their manor was overgrown with ivy that wound up the stone walls and concealed the west facing first-floor windows, creeping toward the roof of mismatched clay tiles. The house was in a charming state of neglect. Castiel went around back and slipped in through the kitchen door, climbing the steps to where Balthazar was waiting.

“Ready?” Balthazar asked, laying down his sketchbook; Castiel glimpsed a drawing of the fallen angel statue in the garden.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Balthazar led Castiel through the hallway to his father’s room. He shooed away a servant dusting the furniture and opened a cedar chest.

“What look are we going for?”

“Something believable,” Castiel said, surveying the line of clean tunics and breeches—they would all look absurd on him.

“No one will question you with that kind of money.” Balthazar selected a combination that wouldn’t draw much attention. The breeches were dark, the shirt modest but well-made. It tied at the neck and wrists.

“I’m going to look ridiculous,” Castiel said, holding the shirt to his chest, careful not to soil it.

“You’re going to look like a nobleman.” Balthazar held out a doublet, deep blue with worn brass buttons. “To bring out your eyes.”

He winked at Castiel’s answering frown and whipped out a belt to cinch the doublet, slapping it down on the bed. He hid Castiel’s eyes with a flat cap, not dissimilar to his own.

“You’ll have to wear your own boots,” Balthazar said. “Your feet are too big to fit any of ours.”

“Do you think they’ll clean up?” Castiel asked, lifting a foot to survey the mud. It had built up thick in the arch of his foot; the toes of both boots were badly scuffed.

“Not a chance,” Balthazar said with a chuckle and pointed to the wash basin. “But I doubt anyone will notice.”

Castiel scrubbed his hands and neck until his skin was pink, but no matter how hard he scrubbed his hands, he couldn’t get the dirt from under his nails: a permanent dark line beneath the white arc. They weren’t the hands of a nobleman. He gave up and got dressed.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned before coming out from behind the changing screen.

“I don’t know why you have such a low opinion of me.”

Balthazar approved of the disguise and spritzed him with something heavily floral that made Castiel sneeze. Balthazar leaned in to sniff at his neck.

“There. You smell slightly less like the outdoors. Just don’t stand too close to anyone.”

Castiel nervously skimmed his hands over the doublet. He hadn’t worn anything this nice in a decade. He faced the stocks if his deceit was discovered, but he buried his fear. A few days of humiliation was nothing compared with the rest of Anna’s life.

When Balthazar tilted his chin up with a finger, Castiel instinctively lowered his gaze.

“Don’t look down to anyone,” Balthazar ordered. “You’re not a servant today; I don’t care who speaks to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Castiel, forcing himself to make eye contact.

“If they question you, you’re from out of town. You are a cousin of my family’s.”

Castiel nodded.

“Once you have Anna, you leave straight away.”

“Are you sure I look the part?” Castiel asked, tucking the coin purse in his belt.

Balthazar slapped him on the ass. “You’re stunning, Cassie. Now go.”

Balthazar loaned him a carriage and driver, which took Castiel as far as the bridge that led over the river surrounding the palace. It was a time of peace, so the gate was always open. Castiel’s father used to tell him stories from when, just a generation ago, the king had barricaded the palace against invaders from Callaway and Campbell. His treaty with Campbell had hinged on the promise of a marriage between their royal families; and though Lawrence and Callaway had never agreed to formal terms, both sides had staid attacks.

Castiel heeded Balthazar’s advice and crossed the bridge with his chin lifted. He nodded when nodded to. No one approached him. He considered how he was going to find Anna now that he was here, and realized he hadn’t put much thought into this plan. What if she was already gone? What if the caravan to Campbell left hours ago, and Castiel was powerless to help her because of laundry?

He nearly cried out when he saw two horses drawing a wheeled cage, filled with ragged people, toward the bridge. He caught the red of Anna’s hair in the afternoon sun and, with a surge of confidence, stepped into the driver’s path.

“I’ve come to pay the debt against this woman,” he called out, voice ringing clear across the royal court. He kept his chin raised and pointed to Anna, who wedged her way to the side of the cart and wrapped skinny fingers around the bars. “She’s my servant. I demand that you release her.”

“These servants have had their contracts sold to Campbell,” the driver droned. He had a cruel expression, deep-sunk eyes and a patchy, graying beard clipped short to his face. “Now get out of my way.”

“Let her go, or I’ll take this up with the king.”

“Who do you think sold them in the first place?”

“I can pay you,” Castiel insisted, holding up the coin purse.

The man leaned forward and bared chipped teeth. He sneered, “I’m not asking you again. Get the hell out of my way!”

A voice interrupted them, shouted from a short distance: “You’ve got a lot of nerve speaking to a nobleman like that, Alastair.”

The driver recoiled, hissing his displeasure, posture softening into submission. Castiel kept still and watched as someone approached from the palace—a man, the prince he’d met that morning in the orchard. Castiel set his jaw and didn’t dare breathe until the prince stopped a few feet away. He prayed that his clothes were a successful disguise.

The prince addressed him directly. “What do you want?”

He looked Castiel in the eye. His were narrowed, piercing, and for a moment Castiel couldn’t speak. He didn’t dare offer the bag of coins, for fear the prince might recognize it, so he pointed to Anna instead.

“I came for my servant.”

“I told him they’ve all been sold,” Alastair cut in. “This lot’s bound for Campbell.”

The prince looked back at Castiel without an ounce of sympathy. “Well?” he demanded, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel trembled but managed to keep his face clear of rage.

“Do you actually believe people are things,” he gritted out, “that they can be bought and sold, ordered around without free will?”

His words caused a change in the prince’s expression—a spark of understanding. He’d hit a nerve. The prince’s eyebrows drew together. He blinked and wet his lips, eyes darting between Castiel’s. He took a long breath.

“Let her go,” he said after a minute, never breaking eye contact. Castiel stared back, taking careful, even breaths in an effort to temper the furious pounding of his heart.

“But, your highness—” Alastair protested.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Huffing, Alastair climbed down from his seat and unlocked the door that secured the cage. He wrenched it open. Anna timidly stepped out.

“Satisfied?” the prince asked, crossing his arms over his chest—an intimidation tactic, no doubt.

“Yes,” Castiel said. He lowered his eyes and turned to Anna, speaking under his breath. “I’ll meet you at the carriage. It’s just past the bridge.”

“Thank you.” She touched his arm and hurried off.

“Your highness,” Castiel said in farewell, with a respectful bow of his head, and followed. But the prince jogged up behind him, coming into his peripheral view. He’d exchanged his tall riding boots for a soft, suede pair that rose to mid-calf, but otherwise he looked like the person Castiel had met in the orchard.

“I could’ve sworn I knew every nobleman in the region. Do I get a name?” His manner was cheeky and Castiel instantly disliked it.

“I assume you have one,” he replied in kind.

“I’m asking yours,” the prince said sourly.

“Why?”

“It’s what people do when they meet.” The prince walked backwards for a few steps. He sucked on his teeth and spit over the bridge; Castiel grimaced at his lack of manners. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

Castiel supposed it would be suspicious if he refused to provide his name to the prince, especially now that the prince had given his. He’d never heard of any of the royals inviting someone to address them by anything but a title; Castiel could scarcely think the name “Dean” without blushing. Reciprocity was surely expected.

“Ca—”

He caught himself before he made a mistake. He couldn’t give his own name; it was too unusual. And though they weren’t nobles, his father’s surname, Novak, might be familiar to the prince. It was presumptuous to think so, but he couldn’t take the risk. He selected a name from a book in his father’s library that he’d read until the cover tore away from the spine.

“My name is Carver, of the House of Edlund.”

There was doubt on the prince’s face, in the way his mouth went crooked and his forehead creased. “Never heard of it.”

They reached the top of the bridge and gazed down the gentle slope to the other side, where the horse and carriage stood waiting. Anna swayed beside it like a reed caught in the breeze. When was the last time she’d eaten or slept? He’d offer to drop her at the lake before returning the carriage to Balthazar. If he could just extract himself from the prince’s company, there might be time for him to swim as well, before Naomi noticed his absence.

“I’m from Campbell,” Castiel offered, walking a touch quicker. Gravel crunched underfoot, the sweet sound of escape. Only a few more yards and he would reach the other side; he’d never have a reason to visit the palace again. But the prince kept up with him step for step.

“Campbell, huh? My mother was born there.”

“Oh?” Castiel commented, hoping they wouldn’t speak more about that country. He knew very little about it, only what he’d heard from Naomi over the years.

“I’ve got plans to visit, once things settle down.” The prince flapped his hand in the air and made a face. “Where are you staying while you’re in Lawrence?”

“With family,” Castiel recited. He held tight to his cap when the wind tugged it from his head, certain the prince could see through his disguise.

“Family?”

“A cousin,” Castiel lied. He was answered by a scowl.

“Which cousin?”

“My—my only cousin,” he returned, smiling an apology. Though he nearly ran, the prince’s voice was just behind him.

“I get the feeling you’re trying not to answer me,” the prince accused, just as Castiel reached the carriage.

“Your highness,” he said, bowing at the waist in relief.

“Carver, of the house of Edlund. Sure hope we meet again.”

“That’s unlikely,” Castiel said. “I’m leaving for home almost immediately.”

“Guess I’ll have the pleasure of looking you up, when I’m in your country.”

The prince’s grin was wolfish. Castiel smiled back through his teeth and hoped there were no Edlunds in Campbell who would be punished for his ruse.

“It would be an honor.”

Anna climbed up to sit beside the driver. The prince held out a hand to assist Castiel into the carriage. Castiel hesitated but took it, unsure of decorum. The prince briefly clasped his fingers, giving them an unnecessary squeeze. He released them as soon as Castiel was seated and stepped away from the wheel.

“Thank you,” Castiel said and nodded to the driver that they could leave. He bristled at Dean’s wink, relieved when the carriage lurched forward.

“Define ‘disastrous.’”

Balthazar peeled the shirt from Castiel’s arms. Between the heat and his nerves, he’d soaked it with sweat. Balthazar turned it right-side-out with a disgusted look and hung it to air on the folding screen. Castiel collapsed against the wall and covered his face with both hands.

“They weren’t going to release Anna, so I challenged the guard—”

“Cassie!”

“—who, I’m quite certain, was prepared to have me arrested when the crowned prince intervened.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I appealed to him and he agreed to let her go.”

“You’re joking.”

“She’s with the carriage,” Castiel mumbled into his palms. “See for yourself.”

Balthazar stuck his head out the second-floor window and whistled.

“You obviously made an impression on him,” he said.

“Don’t say that.”

“He has a reputation. It’s not generosity.”

“No?” Castiel widened his eyes over his fingertips, hoping Balthazar would elaborate.

“You do live under a rock. The rumor is he’ll chase anything that isn’t nailed down. Hand me your breeches.”

Castiel kicked out of them blindly, glad when they fell away. They were too warm for summer. His thighs were damp with perspiration and he happily stood in the breeze from the open window.

“Did you give them all of your money?” Balthazar asked.

“I—” Castiel blinked at his foolishness. “Do you think I should’ve negotiated with him?”

“I don’t care. I just thought you might have hidden a coin in your boot for a rainy day.”

“I wouldn’t be able to spend it without Naomi asking where it came from, and if she found it before I did, she’d take it for herself.”

“Unscrupulous—next you’ll tell me she sold Anna in the first place to pay her taxes.”

Castiel rubbed his temples. “I don’t understand why my father married her.”

“She holds a title, and she’s not hard on the eyes,” Balthazar ribbed, swiping the cap from Castiel’s head. “Neither are you, but you’d better get dressed and off home.”

“They’ll miss me soon,” Castiel sighed, slipping into his tunic. He cinched the waist and drew up his pants. They hung airy and loose on his legs. “I wish Naomi would sell me to you.”

“Just a few more months and you can come here of your own will.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Castiel cautioned, firm yet amused.

“I’m not asking.” Balthazar smirked. “Now go home.”

Naomi had been preoccupied with visitors all morning, so Castiel’s absence had gone unnoticed, though Gabriel gave him a knowing look when he carried lunch upstairs from the kitchen. Castiel pointedly avoided his gaze and, ascertaining that he wasn’t needed, escaped to the lower level.

Anna knelt in front of the hearth, scraping the dregs of last night’s meal into a bowl. Castiel’s stomach twisted with pity. Her face was gaunt with a yellow cast, and it was apparent in the way her clothes hung off her frame that she was a good deal thinner than Castiel remembered, before she was sent away.

He fetched the bruised apple he’d saved for his lunch and pressed it into her hands. She took a bite, closing her eyes as she reached to wipe away juice that dribbled down her chin. Castiel politely looked away.

“How do we tell the baroness that Anna is back?” Hannah posed quietly, already peeling potatoes for their supper. They’d eat them boiled without salt; Naomi didn’t allow it downstairs. They couldn’t afford it. But Castiel would eat his potato plain and be glad for food.

He wondered, fleetingly, how the palace servants lived, whether they had similar restrictions or enjoyed certain privileges because of the household they served. If Naomi’s scheme was a success and Lucy went to live in the palace, would Castiel be expected to go along and serve her instead of being freed? If he had to stay in servitude, his wish would be that the family move out of the manor, that they would no longer have any use for him, and he’d be permitted to take over running the estate.

He shrugged in answer to the question.

“We’re supposed to take the chickens to market.” Hannah said. She dug out a potato eye. It fell to the dusty floor.

“Fine,” sighed Castiel, bending to pitch it into the cold fireplace. “Anna, help me fetch them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had a mind to send Benny alone to return the horse, but after he instructed Alastair to release the rest of the prisoners—if Dean released one, he might as well release them all—he went along to avoid further interrogation by his father. The heat made him drowsy. He slid more than usual in the polished saddle, keeping one hand on the pommel and yawning into the other. Benny shot him a quizzical look, and he mumbled that he was fine.

“You’re two steps from falling off that horse, your highness,” Benny chided. “You need to get more sleep.”

“ _You_ need to get more sleep,” Dean returned. He squirmed in the saddle—his hip was bruised, neck and back stiff from the fall. He nudged the horse with his heels and it trotted a step faster, hooves stirring dust in their wake. The early afternoon sun had already dried the road from last night’s rain. “Did my father give you a hard time?”

“No more than usual. I think he was more upset with your brother for putting the idea in your head.”

“Sneaking out?”

“Rebellion. Dean, I’ve known you since you were just knee-high, and I’ve never once seen you disobey your father, never mind that he’s the king.”

Dean shrugged. “Never had a reason to.”

“You realize that you and I will be inseparable between now and your engagement.”

“Peachy.”

“Better me than Alastair.”

“Better _anyone_ than Alastair,” Dean agreed under his breath. “That’s one benefit to becoming king: I can let him go.”

Benny grinned at him sideways, the skin around his eyes crinkling with the air of co-conspiracy. He gestured toward the horse. “That’s a fine animal. Shame you have to return it.” 

Dean patted the horse’s neck, smoothing his hand over her pale mane. It needed to be pulled but was in good condition, bleached white at the tips by the sun. The horse was old but well brushed and fed. None of her ribs were visible. She was a solid girth between Dean’s thighs. Someone obviously cared for her and would undoubtedly want her back. He rubbed the apple-sized bruise on his forehead. 

“She’s got a good disposition,” he said, guiding the horse around a dip in the road. Her head bobbed with each step. “Calm.”

“I thought you said it threw you?”

“That’s because some asshole was throwing rotten apples at me.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Knocked me on my ass.”

“And you didn’t have him punished?”

“Didn’t have time, with you on my heels.” 

Benny snorted with amusement.

“Anyway, I bribed him to shut up,” Dean admitted.

“Why?”

“I thought it might buy me a few minutes, stop him from ratting me out if you questioned him.”

“Looks like you’re out money for no reason. You should’ve bid on the horse instead.”

“If I wanted the horse, I would keep it.” 

They approached a curve in the road, making it impossible to see if the way was safe. If he laid into the horse now, he might be able to make a run for it, getting as far as the horse could take him before she collapsed.

“You sure you won’t take a bribe?” He flashed Benny a smile, then self-consciously rubbed his neck. Shaking his head, Benny grinned and and dug in his heels. 

“Stay put,” he ordered.

He made an insistent whistle with two fingers. From the rear, two riders came forward along the flanks. Benny sent them ahead and positioned himself directly in front of Dean, affording him a first-rate view of his horse’s rump. It lifted its tail and made a mess in the road. Dean groaned and held his breath. 

There was nothing remarkable around the curve, but as they plodded past an overgrown two-story house, Dean’s horse picked up her pace. She became damn near sprightly, pulling with her head. He kept pressure at her mouth to keep her at a walk, and glanced at the property. 

From a craggy garden, behind a fallen winged statue obscured by weeds, a lank and squinting man bowed to him. Dean offered him a half-hearted wave. 

“This is it,” he called to Benny as they approached the next manor.

What had likely been a sweeping gravel drive was largely dirt now, a scattering of rock, weeds encroaching on both sides. It ended in a gate that hung off rusted hinges, a gap-toothed smile in the crumbling stone surround. They rode through it. It suited the house, like a thing out of time, rising shabby and beige from a stubble of brown-tipped grass. 

Benny dismounted first. He strode the mossy stone path to the entrance and, shaping his hand into a fist, pounded three times. He stepped back to wait. Dean swung a leg over the saddle and hopped down, patting the horse soundly on the flank. She didn’t move when he dropped the reins, just snorted and flared her nostrils. 

Dean heard the grating of an old metal lock in need of oil. He looked up to see a dark-haired servant in the doorway, hands twisted in a stained apron. 

Benny cleared his throat. “His Royal Highness wishes to speak with the master of the house.” 

Her eyes widened and darted to Dean. She immediately composed herself, backing away with a half-bow and returning with three people: an elegant woman who had no aversion to eye contact—the lady of the house; a man roughly Dean’s age, with long hair like Sam’s, mouth upturned in a smirk; and a young woman of dazzling beauty cut with a predatory smile. She caught his eye and held it. 

The lady of the house approached the riding party. 

“To what do we owe the honor, your highness?” she asked. Dean spoke up. 

“I borrowed your horse this morning. Afraid I startled one of your servants in the process.”

She shifted her gaze toward the horse and noticeably stiffened, though she tried to hide it with a generous smile. 

“I didn’t realize it was missing. Of course, his majesty is welcome to _anything_ we have.”

The young man in the doorway snickered and elbowed his sister; Dean got the sense he was missing out on a joke.

“Your name?” Dean asked the woman, bent on ignoring him.

“Baroness Naomi of the house of Novak. My son, Gabriel, and my daughter, Lucille.”

“Your highness,” they murmured. Gabriel bowed and winked. Lucille curtseyed but never took her eyes from him, and Dean had the suspicion he was being undressed. A pleased blush pricked his neck and cheeks, but he locked his focus on Naomi, whose smile bordered on smug.

“If I may, allow me to congratulate you on your upcoming engagement,” she said. 

“Thank you,” Dean mumbled. 

She motioned to the servant in the doorway, who obediently took the reins and led the horse away, around the side of the house to where the stable stood. He recalled that it had been a bit rundown, but clean, surrounded by a flower bed—likely maintained by whomever took care of the horse. 

A guard brought the spare, a short gelding Dean mounted from the ground, easily swinging his leg over the saddle. The horse stomped and stepped backwards. Dean adjusted in his seat, winding the reigns through his fingers. 

“Good day,” he said and clucked at the horse. Lucille watched him up the length of the drive. 

Back on the road, Benny trotted up beside him and whistled.

“She was something.”

Dean scowled. “The baroness?” 

“The daughter. Did you get a look at her?”

“She sure as hell got an eyeful of me. Can’t believe I never met her before.” 

“Princess material, if you ask me. I’d pursue her myself if I weren’t a happily married man,” Benny continued. After a few seconds, he added, “I overheard what your father said to you this morning.”

Groaning, Dean freed a hand to wipe sweat from his brow. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Well, you’d better think about it, or you’ll be marrying the one they ship in.”

“I don’t understand why I have to get married at all.”

“Your brother doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Sam thinks he’s in love,” Dean countered. 

“You don’t believe it?”

“I believe he thinks it.”

“So?”

“So he might feel differently in a few years.”

Benny’s laughter echoed up the road. “You’ve never been in love, have you.”

Dean shrugged. “I cared about Lisa.”

“Shame she’s no longer an option. She’d make a good queen.”

“It wasn’t right to lead her on. She couldn’t have been more than a mistress. She deserves better than that.” Dean frowned at the memory. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to look the other way, give me time to reach the border?”

“I would give my life for you, but I’m not giving _up_ my life for you—you see the difference? I have a little one on the way. If they found out I abetted in your escape?” Benny whistled through his teeth. 

Dean rounded his shoulders, slumping forward over the horse’s neck and allowing his muscles to relax. He rubbed at an impending headache. “It was worth asking.”

Benny leaned across the space between their horses and knocked Dean in the shoulder. “Cheer up, brother. For all you know, you and your princess will get along famously. I hear those hunters are something else.”

“Maybe.” A thought occurred to Dean. “Benny, you ever hear of the Edlunds of Campbell?”

Benny hummed, face twisting in thought. “Can’t say that I have, but then I’m not much of a traveler. Why?”

“No reason.” 

Easing the horses into a canter, they ran toward home.

The marketplace was within the town proper, a short walk from the palace gates: a miniature city of tents and stalls slowly baking in the summer heat. It buzzed with the chaos of bartering and braying livestock. Castiel dried his forehead with a sleeve and wished he hadn’t forgotten his hat. His nose would be pink and raw when they rolled up the awning at the end of the day. 

They’d arrived late and were fortunate to be assigned a stall, but with their meager offerings (just three chickens and an armful of potatoes—the last of the season) and the late hour, their booth went unnoticed. Castiel passed the time stroking a brown and white hen he called Halo, which would likely be bought for food.

“We’ll hope for eggs,” he told her, scratching her head. She clucked affectionately, and he was near smiling when a shrill voice sent an involuntary shudder throughout his body.

“Castiel, Castiel.”

His pulse picked up, dread rising. He prepared himself for the encounter, rolling his shoulders to open up his chest. He lifted his eyes to regard their only customer.

Marv was the court scribe, a diminutive, bug-eyed man with dark hair and a red mouth that made Castiel sick. 

“Good afternoon,” he offered with a tight smile. He couldn’t afford to be rude, despite his unease—his technical role as Naomi’s stepson wouldn’t save him from a lashing if he cost them their livelihood.

Marv’s smile was tinged with condescension. “Tell me, Castiel, when are you going to grow tired of a servant’s life and agree to my offer?”

Hannah held out the hen Castiel had coddled, smiling at Marv over a jumble of potatoes. 

“Chicken?” she said. 

“I could buy you, you know,” Marv continued as if Hannah hadn’t spoken. He widened his eyes, awaiting Castiel’s reply. When Castiel took a step to the left, Marv moved in tandem. Castiel imagined that he could feel Marv’s breath, wet and unwelcome on his neck.

“You could,” he agreed. 

It wasn’t safe to say any more than that. Because of his position within the palace, Marv had Naomi’s ear, and she would undoubtedly take his side if a misunderstanding arose. Every week for two years, he’d endured this same torment, the slither of Marv’s tongue before he spoke. Marv had made his offer known when Castiel was nineteen; despite Castiel’s repeated refusals, he persisted in offering himself. 

Castiel would rather die than have Marv touch him. He supposed he might if Naomi consented to the union, whether by disgust or by his own hand, but her silence on the matter confirmed her tenuous affection for him. It wasn’t strong enough to want to provide him happiness, but she did shield him from this one misery. He always liked Naomi best after market day.

Following an extended silence, Marv smiled. “I won’t buy anything today,” he said. “You should appreciate my generosity, Castiel. It’s the reason your little farm survives, you know.”

He smiled his goodbye, an obscene flash of teeth. Castiel dug his fingernails into his palms until Marv was well out of sight. 

A whole day at market and no sales—Naomi would be livid. Castiel could already feel the switch’s sting across his back. He inwardly cursed himself and helped Hannah roll up the tent, then coaxed the chickens back into their cages and carried the potatoes to the cart.

There hadn’t been time to bathe yesterday, and with the sun behind a cloud cover and the late hour, Castiel again jettisoned his plans to visit the lake. He guided Lincoln home, patting her neck occasionally. He hadn’t expected to see her again once the prince had gone after her and was glad for that and for Anna’s return. Hannah was quiet the whole walk, but she spoke up when they passed through the gate. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but maybe you should consider him. It would be a better life for you.”

He tightened his hold on the lead, the leather soft from a decade of use, as the cart’s bad wheel wobbled nearly off its axle

“Would _you_?” he asked. She didn’t answer. 

Anna wasn’t in the kitchen when Castiel brought the potatoes inside. Naomi must’ve discovered her return and summoned her upstairs. It wasn’t worth delaying, so Castiel went up and found them in the sitting room. 

Naomi sat at the piano, playing a song Castiel had heard countless times in a decade: an anthem of Campbell. Anna had her back to the wall, chin respectfully lowered. Gabriel and Lucy reclined on chaises. Naomi stopped playing when Castiel entered, and the pause in music made everyone turn and look. Naomi dismissed Anna with the flap of her hand, eyes fixed on Castiel in silent accusation. Anna cast him a sympathetic look and ducked through the doorway for the safety of downstairs. 

“Why didn’t you inform me that the prince had been here?” Naomi demanded. 

Castiel swallowed before answering. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“I determine what is relevant in this house.” Naomi’s eyes flashed, but her face remained otherwise impassive. “And it is relevant when the crowned prince is at my doorstep to return my horse.”

Castiel opened his mouth to offer an explanation but thought better of it. He bit his lip and ducked his chin toward his chest in submission.

Naomi closed the piano. “How did it happen?”

“I caught him in the orchard with the horse,” Castiel said carefully. “I didn’t recognize him.” 

“Did you speak to him? What did you say?”

“I—I accused him of being a thief.”

Across the room, Gabriel was quiet. Lucy laughed in delight. Naomi rose from the piano bench, her stature a full head shorter, but her presence dominated the room.

“If you desire your freedom, you will not betray me again.” 

Something cold uncoiled in Castiel’s stomach. Naomi could be unfeeling toward him, but he never imagined she’d deny him his future, not after he’d served her willingly.

“Of course,” he promised, his voice entreating. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Her eyes flickered to the place where Anna had stood against the wall. Castiel followed her line of sight; she was asking for an explanation. 

“She worked off your—” he began. Naomi’s eyes snapped back to his, widening. “ _Her_ debt, my lady. They sent her home.”

Silence stretched between them; though the room was stifling, Castiel’s skin pricked with cold. 

“Put her to work downstairs,” Naomi said. “I don’t want to see her again today.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She turned toward the window, skirt billowing with the movement, swaying to a rest against her legs. When she spoke again, her tone was almost kind. 

“The king’s scribe asked after you again. I had a letter from him this morning. It would be a shame to lose your services to his household, but he offers such a generous price, it’s hardly economical for me to refuse any longer.”

Castiel tasted her threat: a sour flavor on the back of his tongue. Nodding rapidly, he bit his cheeks to hold back tears even as his face grew scorching and his hands began to quake. 

Naomi smiled out the window. “I’m glad we understand each other.”


	5. Chapter 5

A formal invitation to the ball, hand-lettered on thick ivory paper, arrived three days later. It requested the presence of every unmarried citizen under twenty-five. 

“Do you know what this means?” Naomi exclaimed, clasping Lucy’s hand. The household went into a flurry. 

She stalked each room in search of valuable items to sell at market, and said Lucy was to go daily to the royal court, to try and catch the prince’s eye. They would buy new clothes for the mask, Naomi said. Castiel didn’t point out the frivolity—the prince had never seen their clothing. He wouldn’t know if it was new or not. But he held his tongue and didn’t say that it was a waste of what money they had left, to spend in hope of something that wouldn’t come true.

Lucy tried on the household’s few jewels, Castiel fumbled the string of pearls that had belonged to his mother. The necklace broke, pearls skittering across the wood floor, rolling under the bed and along baseboards. He scooped them into his palm, finding solace in the fact that Lucy wouldn’t be able to wear them anymore. Glaring, Naomi sent him away. He was glad for any excuse to go outside, knowing he wouldn’t be expected back for some time. 

He hid the pearls under his floorboard and hiked out to the lake. It was a little less than a mile from the manor, untamed at its banks, deeply brown rather than the crisp blue he’d read about in books. Wishful thinking, perhaps. He stood on the sandy bank to remove his clothing, shaking it to release dust and dirt. He laid them on the ground to freshen while he bathed, then waded naked into the water until it licked his knees.

The lake was deep and wide and shocking cold, even with the summer heat. It numbed his legs and pinched his skin to goose bumps. He sucked a breath through his teeth, wrapping both arms around his stomach and waited for his body to adjust. 

It was hot out, but his teeth chattered and the skin on the back of his neck grew clammy the longer he stood still, so he waded in further and gasped when the water sloshed against his inner thighs. He took another step and the lake floor squished between his toes; he must’ve stepped in a fish nest. Grimacing, he shook his foot to chase away the sensation, walking until his toes again sunk into the sandy bottom. He lowered his hands into the water. 

He loved this lake, a place of solace for him ever since his father disappeared. He used to sit on the bank and replay the times they came here to fish and swim. They’d often brought food and eaten along the shore with Hannah, who had been as much a friend to Castiel as a servant growing up. He’d always thought of her as a sister. It hadn’t been difficult for him, only ten years old, to live with her downstairs. He’d welcomed it over the baroness’s frosty demeanor when he’d still been considered family, the sinking feeling that he wasn’t and would never be accepted as one of them. 

At first, he’d tried to appeal to Naomi. Balthazar had suggested their differences might be due to their cultural differences. She was from another country. Naomi had a way of speaking and moving that made Castiel feel clumsy; perhaps she thought his manners were coarse. For three years he’d attempted to prove himself to her: working diligently, tirelessly, without complaint. He’d kept his hands and face clean. When they went to town, he addressed her formally and always walked behind Gabriel and Lucy.

One day in market when he was just thirteen, she’d introduced her children to a stranger, but she didn’t introduce Castiel. It was at that moment he’d realized what he was to them. The stranger’s eyes had fallen upon him, watery and needy. At least Naomi had not sent him to Marv’s household that afternoon. 

Holding his breath, he bent his knees and plunged beneath the surface of the lake. Water flooded his ears and the cold knocked out his breath, body tense, hair painful at its roots. But he felt alive. He felt reborn, clean for the first time in weeks. 

He scrubbed at his hands, at his face, pushed through the water with both arms and his body moved through it—weightless, as if he had wings. Stretching his arms wide, he pretended that great feathers extended from each of his fingertips, from the bones in his forearm, from his shoulder blades. The wings could carry him away from here, up and over the mountains that separated Lawrence from the sea. He could leave here, if only he could fly. 

He floated on his back for a long time, gazing at the sky, at untouchable clouds painted above him. Anna liked to find pictures in them, but he saw no meaning in their formations today, just a smattering of white.

Along the shoreline, there was a sudden splashing. Castiel startled, losing the tension in his stomach, and sunk under water. He emerged sputtering and stood up, whipping around to see what had caused it. 

The crowned prince threw rocks from a place where the shore flattened out, where Castiel’s father used to sit and fish. His mouth was twisted to the side; Castiel couldn’t tell if he was smiling or frowning. A burly man with a short beard sat behind him on the ground near Castiel’s clothes, picking his teeth. The prince threw a rock, then knelt to pick up another. It dropped and sank. 

Castiel had floated a distance from his entry point. He squinted against the sun and began to walk toward shore, until the water was only waist deep. The prince raised his head when he heard Castiel approach, scowling at first—what was it Balthazar had said about his demeanor?—but his face shortly blossomed in recognition. 

“Carver?” he exclaimed. He walked into the shallow water and held out a hand to beckon Castiel forward. Castiel could be modest or he could accept Dean’s hand.  

“Your highness,” Castiel said. “Would you hand me my tunic?”

“Huh?”

“I was bathing.”

“What—oh. Sure. And it’s Dean, by the way.”

Dean snatched up Castiel’s shirt and waded in to his ankles. He held it out and turned his head away. Castiel walked forward to take the shirt, cupping himself until he had it in hand. He pulled it over his head—it just covered him—and walked the rest of the way out of the lake. 

Dean smiled at him, lopsided. “You’re still in Lawrence.” 

“I—” Castiel began, using the excuse of shaking water from his head to buy him time to think—what was it he’d said? “I extended my stay.”

“Were you swimming alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I prefer the solitude.” . 

“Ah.” Dean motioned to the man on the ground. Castiel supposed he was a guard by the sword he kept in his belt. “Yeah, I understand.”

Castiel felt he ought to say something in reply. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

“I usually go to the ruins near the palace, but with the heat I felt like swimming. My father used to bring me here when I was young. I haven’t been here in...fifteen years?”

“If you go in, the water is cold.”

“Here, take my cloak,” Dean said, motioning to it on the ground.

“I’m fine,” Castiel refused. “I’m almost dry.” He smiled and strode toward the rest of his clothes. 

“Suit yourself,” Dean muttered, stooping down for another rock. 

It was the false identity that gave him the nerve to talk back. He pulled up his pants and called over his shoulder, “Do you always sulk when you don’t get your way?”

The man on the ground snorted. Dean angled his head around in a careful, smooth motion, and held Castiel’s gaze for a breath. Castiel was sure he’d be reprimanded for his sass, but Dean surprised him by shaking his head.

“Sorry,” he offered, scratching his neck. “Guess I’m being a jackass.”

Castiel sniffed, raising one shoulder and letting it fall. “A bit.”

Dean snorted this time, mouth twitching. He pitched the rock in his palm. It struck the surface and sunk. 

“Never did get the hang of that.”

“You’re holding it wrong,” Castiel said. He belted his pants, his rattiest pair. The cotton stuck to the places his skin was still wet. “You have to keep the rock tilted at a slight angle to the ground.”

Dean looked at him like he’d just spoken in angelic tongues. Castiel rolled his eyes and boldly walked up beside him. He hoped Dean wouldn’t comment on the style and condition of his clothes, but it was obvious he’d already noticed from the wide-eyed expression on his face. He burst out laughing. 

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asked, with a hand on his belly to stifle the laughter. 

“No one notices me this way.” 

Dean sobered and chewed on his lip. “Never thought of that,” he murmured. 

Castiel shrugged and knelt in search of a rock with the right shape and heft to skip. He found one at the water’s edge—flat and dark gray, shiny from the lake. He tossed it in the air and it landed satisfyingly in his palm. 

“Watch,” he instructed, holding the rock with his thumb and forefinger, then threw it. The rock skipped four times, then dropped underwater. Castiel stepped back with satisfaction and brushed off his hands. “Now you.”

Dean scowled but bent down and picked up a rock. 

“That one’s too thick,” Castiel told him. “You want to find one flatter than that.”

But Dean ignored him and pitched the rock across the water. It broke the surface on its first strike. He cursed under his breath and turned his back when his guard chuckled. Castiel felt a little smug. He skipped a second rock simply to gloat, then sat back down on the dry grass to pull on his mud-caked boots. The laces dirtied his hands when he tightened them; he curled his fingers into his palms. 

Dean looked back at him. “Where’s your servant?” 

“It’s her day off,” Castiel lied, hoping he sounded confident enough to be believable, but the prince laughed. 

“What does a servant need with a day off?”

His easy dismissal of Anna lit a fire in Castiel’s gut. He set his teeth and counted to three before replying. “Servants are people, your highness.” 

“Of course they’re _people_ ,” Dean countered. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Castiel stood up and brushed his hands on his pants, then bowed slightly. “I have to get back.”

“Back where?”

Castiel realized he’d trapped himself into answering. “My cousin’s house.”

“I’ll take you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Are you pissed at me?”

“Actually, yes,” Castiel said, thrilled at the rare opportunity to be candid. Dean gestured at the burly man, who rolled his eyes but turned his face away. Castiel swallowed bitterly as Dean stepped nearer. 

“I’m sorry for what I said just now, okay?” Dean spoke in a low voice, lacking its earlier smugness. “I’d really—it would be an honor to escort you home.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“Please,” Dean added.

“Your highness—”

“Dean.” 

“I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“So am I,” Dean told him. “I’ll walk with you.”

Castiel was dumbfounded. “Why?”

Dean shrugged and scratched his cheek. “You’ve given me a hard time ever since I met you.”

“You like a challenge,” Castiel guessed. 

“Who doesn’t?”

“You don’t know anything about me. I could be married.”

“Are you married?”

Castiel bit his lip. “No,” he admitted, and Dean looked satisfied. 

“Good. Neither am I.”

Continuing to refuse might brook suspicion, so Castiel smiled in concession and began up the trail. “You can walk me to the road.”

These woods were sparse, a relatively young forest. It was easy to see what lay ahead on the trail, even with the leaves fully developed. They formed a fractured umbrella that let in ample light, the forest floor bright and beautiful. Castiel expertly navigated the trail, glad that Dean remained quiet and that the guard kept his distance. He followed them, but he wasn’t close enough to hear if they spoke. 

Dean was the one to break the silence. “Is your house far?” 

“Just up the road.”

“You never told me your family’s name. I checked. There aren’t any Edlunds around here.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. He recalled what Balthazar told him. “My cousin is the Earl of Roche.”

“No kidding. I’ve heard he’s eccentric.”

It wouldn’t be appropriate to comment on the earl’s character, no matter how many years Castiel had known him. He was rarely home, but the spare times they’d met over the years, he’d treated Castiel as a son. 

“He’s kind to me,” Castiel said. 

“Then he won’t mind if I call on you tomorrow.”

The presumption made Castiel frown. “My cousin told me that you’re engaged.”

“You were talking about me, huh?” Dean grinned.

“I mentioned that I’d met the crowned prince of his country, yes.” Castiel stopped at the edge of the woods and faced him. “Is it true?”

“I’m engaged to be engaged. It’s not the same thing.”

“Seeing me would be dishonest.”

“And disrespectful,” Dean said. “I already got the lecture from my brother.”

“Then why?”

“Can you be ready at nine in the morning?”

Castiel, flustered, laughed off the flattery in disbelief. “This—this is absurd.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.” Castiel stopped the conversation before it went too far. “I can’t be ready by nine. You’re getting married, and I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He thought his words might cause a rise in Dean, but he simply blinked. 

“Look. I’ll send a carriage at eleven. If you want to see me, climb inside. And if not, I won’t bother you again.”

Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but his mind went blank. He shook his head and resumed walking. Dean remained at the tree line. 


	6. Chapter 6

The following day was hot before the sun came up, and as the day wore on, the temperature only continued to climb. Even with the windows open, the palace was stifling. Sam nearly face-planted into his eggs, saved only by an attentive servant who moved his plate out of the way at the last moment.

Dean thought about sending the carriage alone, so that if Carver didn’t come out of the house, he wouldn’t be present to feel the sting of rejection. But escaping the heat and tension of the palace was paramount, so he climbed in once Bobby readied the horses.

Outside the Roche manor, Dean sat forward over his knees, peering out the carriage window for the fifth time in a minute. He wiped his forehead with a finely embroidered handkerchief, thinking idly of the common clothing Carver had worn when they met at the lake. He balled up the handkerchief and shoved it in his pocket, drumming his hands on the seat to pass the time.

Benny had already gone to the door. They had been waiting in the drive for ten minutes. As a prince, he shouldn’t wait at all, but there was something about Carver that Dean found intriguing. Few people (Sam, of course, his father, Bobby, and even Lisa at times) had ever dared to contradict him. Perhaps being from another country is why Carver felt he could. Dean was used to being treated carefully, but for once he didn’t feel played to. Carver’s manner was inappropriate, but not an act.

Benny stuck his head in the window. “How much longer are you planning to wait?”

“A few more minutes,” Dean said. When Benny looked like he might question the order, Dean added, “We were early.”

Benny smirked. “Whatever you say, Romeo.”

Benny’s attitude was understandable. There were probably a hundred people in the province who would agree to marry him if he asked, thousands more spread across the kingdom. Any one of them would likely make him as happy or as miserable as the Princess of Callaway, yet here he was chasing after a foreigner who had already formed a low opinion of him.

It had never been necessary to work for someone’s affections. They were always freely given, but to the crown, rarely to him. Lisa, a commoner he’d courted when he’d come of age, had cared for him, but he was glad she was married, settled and happy with someone who wasn’t forced to downplay the relationship. But Bella and Aaron had envied the crown, seeking Dean’s attention solely for a chance at it. After that, he suspected everyone of the same motive. It was impossible not to, and his relationships grew casual.

If only he and Carver had met under different circumstances, where Carver didn’t know he was a prince, and Dean didn’t have the pressure of an engagement clouding his judgment. He couldn’t be sure he liked Carver entirely for himself or because he represented a way out of an undesirable situation.

The front door opened. Dean’s heart leapt. He tensed, resting a hand on the carriage door, but the person who came out wasn’t Carver. It was a man a few years older, laugh lines around his eyes, a permanent squint—the earl, Dean presumed, the same man he’d seen the day he returned the horse.

“Your highness,” the man said, approaching the carriage. “It’s an honor. Carver’s so sorry to have kept you waiting. He’ll be out in a minute. Will you come inside?”

“I’ll wait, thanks,” Dean said. He raised his eyes to the house, taking in the broken tile roof, windows hung with ivy. “Nice house.”

“It’s my father’s,” the man said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And it’s in need of repair. I’m Balthazar.”

“Dean.”

Balthazar laughed incredulously. “I couldn’t believe it when Cassie told me whom he’d befriended.”

“Cassie?”

“Carver. It’s my nickname for him. I’ve called him that since we were children. Should I ask where you’re taking him?”

“There’s a church an hour away.”

“The one in the foothills? He’ll like that.”

“Does he have family?” Dean asked.

“I’m all he has.”

“Any, uh, suggestions? Say I want to impress him.”

Balthazar studied him for a beat, perhaps to ascertain Dean’s reason for being here at all. “Cassie cares deeply about things. People. Perhaps too deeply. If your intentions are transient, I’d suggest you leave before he comes outside.”

Dean, surprised by his honesty, merely glanced at his boots. Wind blew hot air through the carriage. Fanning himself, Dean moved aside the curtain that blocked the opposite window. Balthazar leaned against the door.

“He loves flowers,” he added more kindly.

“What kind?”

“Anything that attracts bees. He keeps a wildflower garden at home.”

“Thanks.”

Balthazar put his lips together and gave a curt nod. “I’ll send him out. Good day, your highness.”

“You too.”

Touching his cap, Balthazar turned on his heel and traced the weedy path back to the house. He left it ajar, and Dean watched as Carver stepped into view. Balthazar adjusted Carver’s shirt and spoke to him. Carver nodded twice, said something in return, and walked out the door. Benny held the carriage open for him. Carver, his cheeks flushed red, settled across from Dean and looked at his hands. He folded them together as Benny closed the door and latched it. Only once Benny had climbed up to sit with the driver did Carver open his mouth to speak.

“Good morning, your highness,” he panted, out of breath.

“I told you, it’s Dean.”

“Good morning, Dean.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Neither was I.”

Carver squirmed in his seat. He was dressed like a nobleman today, in a delicate linen shirt and sleeveless blue doublet. The color was beautiful, but the getup didn’t suit him. Dean preferred the ill-fitting shirt and pants that Carver had worn home from the lake, the easy way his hair had curled behind his ears and stood haphazard where he’d run his hands through it.

“Ride’s about an hour,” Dean said when the carriage jerked and began to move. It rattled down the road, jostling them both when a wheel rolled into a rut just outside the Novak manor. When he noticed Carver fidget again, he added, “Is that okay?”

“Fine,” Carver bit out, scratching irritably at his neck. He ran a finger beneath his collar to loosen it.

“Something wrong?”

“Mosquito bites. I was outside working too late and drew a swarm.”

Dean settled back with an amused frown. “Working on what?”

“Oh.” Carver looked out the window and dropped his hands to his lap. “Just...helping my cousin. He’s not a very good farmer.”

“And _you_ are?”

Cas scowled at the rebuke. “I know more than he does.”

“He said he calls you Cassie. Do you prefer that to Carver?”

“Ugh, no,” Carver said, shaking his head. After a breath, he added, “I don’t mind Cas, though.”

“Cas, huh?” Dean considered how it felt on his tongue. “Yeah, I like that.”

Now that the carriage was in motion, the open windows let in a steady breeze, but Dean grew woozy the longer the ride. _Cas_ was nodding off too, head bobbing toward his chest. He startled when the carriage hit a rut, mumbling an apology before his eyes fluttered closed again.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean said and supposed he meant it.

Cas slept during most of the ride to the foothills. Dean had never taken the opportunity to watch someone sleep before and found himself stealing glances every few minutes. Cas had strong cheekbones, a sharp jaw, beautifully tanned skin. He must spend a lot of time outdoors, probably on the beach in Campbell. Dean tried to imagine the tang of salt air, the bite of ocean breeze.

“You’re staring,” Cas said midway through the journey. He hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Sorry,” Dean chuckled, although he wasn’t.

A hundred years ago, monks built the church in the foothills of the mountain range that separated Lawrence from Campbell. It wasn’t a particularly tall or majestic building, constructed of simple limestone blocks mined from the same hillside. The roof was slate, rising to a peak at its steeple. There were grander churches closer to the palace, but Dean had always had a softness for this one because his mother had brought him before Sam was born. He had memories of her anointing his forehead with holy water before they knelt to pray.

The church’ s interior was dark, quiet. Across the congregation, a few candles flickered in an alcove, but Dean and Cas were alone. Since the church extended into the hillside, it was significantly cooler than outside. Cas removed his cap and let out a breath, almost inaudible. Dean dipped two fingers into the brass vessel of holy water affixed just inside the doorway and raised them to Cas’s face.

“May I?” he asked.

Cas hesitated and wet his lips. “Alright,” he said.

When Dean traced a cross on his forehead, Cas shivered. Dean anointed himself, then walked up the aisle to the second pew. He sat down and folded his hands.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Cas remarked, sitting down. He left several feet between them and clasped his hands on his lap, too.

“I’m not. Spiritual, maybe. I used to come here with my mother.”

“My father brought me when he was alive.”

“How did he die?”

“I don’t know,” said Cas.

“How old were you?”

Cas turned a frown toward him, head tilted in query. “What does it matter?”

Dean shrugged, eyes focused on the altar. A large wood cross loomed over the congregation. “Guess it doesn’t.”

They were quiet for several uncomfortable minutes. Cas fidgeted with his sleeves and collar, yawning into his hand. Tapping his foot, Dean ran through the few prayers he remembered, and kept his hands respectfully clasped. When he cleared his throat, the sound echoed overhead and behind them, off of the rafters that supported the roof.

Cas spoke suddenly.

“I was ten when my father died. He was away on business and never came home. Technically, he’s missing, but he’s presumed dead. I used to think I would grow up, go and find him.”

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was an infant.”

“My mother died in a fire,” Dean told him.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Who raised you?”

Cas swallowed and was a few seconds before replying. “My stepmother.”

“My father never remarried.”

“I wish mine hadn’t.” Cas covered his face with his hands and groaned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s what these places are for, right? Confession?”

“I suppose. You tell me something.” Cas turned toward him with the full force of his eyes, so deep and blue Dean felt breathless.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Anything. Something true.”

“True, huh?” Dean licked his lips and said the most honest thing he could. “I don’t want the crown.”

Cas looked dumbfounded, his mouth parting. “Why? You could do so much for your people.”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t think I’ll be much good at it. Now my brother, he’d make an awesome king, but I can’t saddle him with that.”

“But if you could, you would honestly walk away from your birthright?”

“To have a chance at my own life? Hell yes.”

Cas was quiet for a while. “What _do_ you want for yourself?”

“A place of my own, maybe a farm—somewhere I don’t have to worry that there’s always someone looking over my shoulder.”

“They do it for your protection.”

“I’d still like my own space. A stable for my Baby.” At Cas’s curious look, Dean laughed and added, “My horse. She’s pushing twenty-five, but she’s a beauty.”

“So you have grand delusions of farming and animal husbandry. What would you grow?” Cas leaned back on his hands, sounding amused.

“I don’t know. What grows well here?”

“Beans,” Cas said. “And potatoes.”

“Then I’d become one hell of a potato farmer.”

Cas huffed, the origin of a laugh, and Dean felt smug.

“If you say so,” he said. He rubbed his neck and returned his eyes to the cross. “Have you spoken with your brother about this?”

“Sam’s happy.”

“Forgive me, but if he deserves to be, then you do too.”

Uncertain how to respond, Dean shifted the conversation to a lighter topic. “So what do you do in Campbell?” he asked. Cas looked at him with a thin mouth, then wilted and mumbled something unintelligible about fishing nets.

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Dean confessed.

“It’s beautiful.” Cas spoke toward the altar.

“Maybe you’ll take me someday.”

Their eyes met, and though they didn’t say anything, an understanding settled between them. Dean winked. Cas nodded.

They took a trail through the foothills and stopped for lunch, settling in a patch of shade beneath a gnarled oak tree. Cas shoved bread and meat into his mouth with a hand, fingers flattened into a plane, and swallowed quickly. He hardly chewed at all. Dean had never seen someone eat with such intensity.

“We’re not in a rush,” Dean assured him, lazily tossing an almond into his mouth. He offered one to Cas.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting one from Dean’s palm. He made a point to chew more slowly, smiling when he swallowed.

“Is the food okay?” Dean asked, wondering if Cas ate quickly to hide his dislike. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” Cas helped himself to another wedge of cheese. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning.”

“I thought you seemed a little rushed.”

“I had things to take care of.”

“Do you ever relax?” Dean mused, intending it as a joke, but Cas bristled and his expression became closed.

“Of course,” he snapped, recoiling from his own words and shaking his head. He snapped a grass stem and twisted it between his fingers. “Dean, I’m sorry. I’m not very good company today.”

“I like your company just fine.”

Cas rewarded him with a slight smile. “You and my cousin are unique in that respect.”

“He was pretty protective of you.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t tell someone who wanted to court Sammy.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Courting me?” Cas said, his eyes down.

“Would you let me, if I said yes?”

“Hmm,” Cas hummed. “Isn’t it your father’s job to look after your brother?”

“My father’s a little preoccupied with running the country.”

“Of course. I wasn’t thinking.” Cas wiped his mouth. “Balthazar appointed himself my protector when my father died.”

“He said you like flowers.”

“I like nature,” Cas clarified, taking a moment to glance around them. “It’s orderly. It lacks humanity’s injustice.”

“Lions still eat antelope.”

“Not because of politics.”

“I guess so. You want another one?” Dean held out an almond. When Cas reached for it, Dean lifted it to Cas’s mouth instead. Cas regarded him with an unreadable expression but parted his lips, and Dean placed the almond on his tongue, thumb grazing Cas’s lower teeth, the wet of his lip. Cas chewed with widened eyes that he kept fixed on Dean.

“Another?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded once. Dean fed him again, but this time he deliberately touched Cas’s tongue. Cas blushed, closing his mouth and covering it with a hand to chew. He watched Dean over his fingertips.

“Last one?” Dean offered, but Cas refused. Dean ate the almond himself, making a show of licking his fingers after, chasing the salt. Cas’s face was deeply pink. He looked feverish, and Dean wondered if he’d pushed too hard. Flirting came easily, but sincerity—that was a challenge.

“Should we walk a little more, before we head back?” he asked, cleaning his hands.

Cas squinted, checking the position of the sun. “That’s fine,” he said, getting up.

“Did you eat enough?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“This is more than I usually eat,” Cas said. “Thank you. It was very good.” He began to pack up their plates, but Dean took his hands.

“The servants will take care of it. Come on.”

Cas’s face was strained, but he set down the plates and stood.

“Captain LaFitte,” Dean shouted. “Cas and I are going to take a walk. We won’t need your services.”

He offered his arm. Cas looked at it, licked his lips, and started ahead without taking it. Dean jogged after him, catching up where the trail forked and Cas looked down each diverging path.

Dean caught his arm. “Look, if you don’t want to be here, we can go.”

“It’s not that.” Cas wrapped his arms around his body and cast his eyes down.

“Then what?”

“I’m not used to this,” he said in a rush. “The attention. You’re much nicer than I thought during our first meeting, and I’m sorry that I judged you, but I don’t understand why you’re doing this or what you want from me.”

“I want you to take my arm,” Dean said. “And I want to walk next to you and listen to you talk about nature.”

“For how long?”

“Well, if we stay _too_ late, the mosquitos will come out, and I know how you feel about them.”

“Dean.” Cas made fists with both hands and bent his arms at right angles. Dean sighed.

“I don’t know, alright? That’s what I want right now. And then I want to get back in that carriage and take you home, and with any luck, you’ll let me see you tomorrow.”

Cas relaxed his hands, lowering his left arm so it hung between them—an offering. Dean frowned but tentatively slid his palm into Cas’s and locked their fingers together. Cas’s hand was clammy, quivering, but he folded it so the pads of his fingers played over Dean’s knuckles.

“Right or left?” Dean asked.

Cas looked down each path again before answering. “Left. It’s brighter.”

“Left it is.”

It was humid in this part of the forest, the air thick, acrid and sweet with leaves that obscured the path. The further they progressed, the closer the trees grew together, and it grew dim. Dean startled at scampering just off the path, a rustle of branches, and Cas squeezed his hand and laughed at him.

“You don’t go outside much.”

Dean puffed out his chest. “I go hunting.”

“The woods won’t hurt you. You’re more likely to be harmed by a human than anything in here.”

“You know that for a fact?”

Cas shrugged. He trailed a hand through a cluster of leaves on a low-hanging branch. “I like to sleep outside.”

“Something wrong with your bed?”

Dean didn’t understand why Cas stopped walking, why his hand went limp inside Dean’s grip, the change in his voice.

“The day we met,” Cas said, “when you gave Anna back to me, did you believe she deserved to be sent to Campbell? That any of them did?”

Confused, Dean stepped away, dropping Cas’s hand. He snapped a branch from a tree and worried the sinews. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Then why did you release her?”

Dean looked at him. Cas’s eyes were shuttered and distant.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” Dean said with a shrug. He pitched the branch into the woods.

“Impress me?” Cas’s voice had gone flat. “I was saving a life. Don’t you see the value in that?”

Dean turned away, facing the place where the branch fell.

“That thing you said about free will? Well, it applies to all kinds of people. It hit me, you know? I’m about to be forced into a marriage I don’t want, and I don’t have any say in it. So I let your servant go, because you made a rousing speech.”

Cas took a breath, lifting his chin before he asked, “Is that all?”

“Your ass isn’t bad,” Dean said carelessly. The anger gathered on Cas’s face and every part of him went rigid, his tone acerbic.

“I see,” he spit out. He shoved past Dean and stomped deeper into the forest, avoiding the trail.

Dean felt like an asshole. He called out for Cas to wait, but he was answered only by the sound of branches snapping underfoot as Cas walked farther away from him. He should go back to the carriage to wait. Logically, Cas would have to come out eventually if he expected to get home. Benny had scouted the woods as far as their picnic site, but there was no telling who or what they might encounter if they went deeper. Cas could take care of himself, but Dean felt obliged to trudge in after him—after all, it was his fault Cas was pissed.

The forest floor was slick with leaves, but at least he was no longer sweating. It would make a good place to sleep, if not for the noises Dean couldn’t identify. He jerked when something chattered above his head, leaping unseen from one tree to the next. A confetti of leaves rained down on him. He kept a hand on his dagger and walked forward.

He discovered Cas standing next to an old tree with a bird’s nest in his hands. He ran a thumb around and around the edge.

“It fell,” he said, not turning around when Dean approached. “The eggs are cracked.”

“What kind was it?” Dean asked.

“A robin. You can tell because the eggs are blue.”

“I let the rest of them go,” Dean said. “After you left.”

Cas craned his head around. “What?”

“I let them go. We won’t be shipping any of them to Campbell. They were all freed.”

Cas didn’t immediately reply. Throwing up his hands, Dean stormed to the nearest tree and collapsed against the trunk. He slid down until he sat on dirt and pulled his knees up in front of him. A root dug into his ass. Frigging perfect. He shifted until he was comfortable. Cas glanced at him, then bit his lip and laid the bird’s nest on the ground. He brushed his hands on his breeches and crouched in front of Dean.

“I’m sorry for assuming.”

“Okay. Then I’m sorry for what I said about your...” Cas raised an eyebrow and Dean rolled his eyes. “You know.”

“My ass?”

“Yeah.”

“Accepted.” Cas wet his lips and put a hand on Dean’s arm. “Can we start the day over?”

Dean let out a desperate laugh. “Sure, why not.”

Cas sat down next to him, closer than he had in the church. He cupped his hands together on his knees, twisting his fingers together, and smiled sheepishly. “Hello.”

“Hey, Cas.”

“This is a beautiful forest. I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Wanted to show you the best parts of the country.”

Cas smiled. “I like Lawrence.”

“Better than Campbell?”

“I’m not sure.”

“As long as you’re not ruling it out.”

Cas held his gaze for a minute. “No,” he said finally. “I’m not ruling it out.”

Dean turned his head so he was speaking to Cas’s profile. He brushed aside a piece of hair, tucking it behind Cas’s ear. “Can I kiss you?”

“I’m certain you’re capable,” Cas said with a straight face.

“ _May_ ,” Dean corrected. “May I kiss you?”

Cas’s face reddened and he ducked his chin. “Why?”

“I gotta have a reason?”

Cas blinked several times, swallowing, hands going still on his knees. “I suppose it’s alright,” he said.

When Dean touched his lips to the corner of Cas’s mouth, Cas gasped. Dean ran a hand over Cas’s face to soothe him, brushing his knuckles along Cas’s cheekbone and his jaw.

He stole a second. Cas’s mouth was soft, yielding. He placed a hand on top of Dean’s on his cheek, turning his face into it more fully, and angled his lips up to meet Dean’s.

There was no heat behind it, no build, just a gentle point of connection. Cas’s kisses were delicate, awkwardly sweet, like baby steps.

Cas grew bolder, leaning in with intent, moaning quietly when Dean parted his lips. He put a hand on Dean’s chest and parted his as well. They kissed until Dean’s legs and ass went numb from sitting on the ground, and the wind changed, stirring the forest floor. It scattered dirt, grains of it sticking to Dean’s lips. He broke away to wipe them clean but instantly wished he hadn’t. Cas wiped his mouth with the hem of his shirt and resumed his forward-facing position, although he lolled his head back against the bark and smiled.

“That was nice,” he breathed, lips red and swollen. He offered Dean his hand and Dean took it.

They didn’t kiss again on the walk back to where the carriage waited, but Cas looped his arm through Dean’s when he offered it this time. He sat on the same side of the carriage and held Dean’s hand during the hour-long ride. When they pulled up in front of his cousin’s house, Cas turned to him.

“Thank you for a lovely day.”

“Will you see me again?”

Cas answered with a kiss to Dean’s cheek.

“Tomorrow?” Dean asked.

“I’m...” Cas pursed his mouth and glanced down the road, posture deflating. “I’m not sure that I can get away.”

“If you can, meet me at the lake. I’ll wait until sunset.”

Dean held onto Cas’s fingertips as he climbed down. Cas hurried up the pathway toward the door and didn’t look back.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean experienced a floating sensation in his chest for the rest of the day. He’d kissed more people than he could count, chased even more, but he’d never been enthralled with a kiss like he’d been with Cas. In the privacy of his bedroom, he fantasized about it and thrust into his own hand. 

At dinner, Sam stared at Dean with a suspicious gleam in his eyes, but they didn’t speak. John ate quickly and excused himself. After the dessert course, Dean drank wine and the servants cleared the table. Sam stayed behind until it was just the two of them. He drummed his fingers on the table.

“So what’s her name?”

“What?”

“You haven’t stopped smiling since we sat down, Dean. That only happens when you’re with someone. Are you back together with Lisa?”

“Lisa’s married.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” Sam said with a laugh. 

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be like that anymore.”

“Ahh.” Sam wiped his mouth on a napkin that he threw toward the centerpiece, a vase of yellow flowers from one of the cutting gardens. “Turning over a new leaf?”

“Sure.”

“I came to find you earlier to go hunting. They said you were out.”

Dean picked a piece of food from his teeth with his thumb nail. “I went to the foothill church.”

“I would’ve gone with you,” Sam said, looking injured. He frowned and picked at the edge of the table. Dean scratched his neck. 

“Sorry, Sammy, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Bobby said you took the carriage.”

“Thought it might rain.”

Sam snorted. “Sure you did. Are you and Benny enjoying your time together?”

“It’s romantic as hell.”

“Well, if you want a break from him, I’m going hunting _tomorrow_. Planning to stay in the cabin overnight. I’m sure dad would let you go with me.”

Dean hesitated. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Unless you have something better to do,” Sam said. He gave a tight smile and pushed back from the table. Dean winced at the scrape of chair legs.

“Hey,” he said, getting up. He followed Sam into the hall and out into a private courtyard buzzing with bees, heady with the scent of boxwoods. He caught Sam’s elbow. “Hey, will you stop?”

Sam sat heavily on a stone bench. “It gets hard being second all the time, Dean.”

“You are _not_ second. Not to me.”

“No?”

Dean skimmed his hand over the nearest boxwood, picked a single leaf and bruised it between his fingers. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he said. 

Sam snorted at the excuse. “Sure.”

“Trust me,” Dean said. “You don’t want to be in my shoes.”

Sam pushed the hair back from his face and looked up at him. “How do you know?” 

Dean studied him for a pause. He still saw Sam as a kid, even though he wasn’t anymore. If he weren’t royalty, Sam would be married with a couple brats hanging from his legs. Sparing a thought for Cas and their plans to meet at the lake tomorrow, Dean dropped a hand to Sam’s shoulder.

“What time do you want to head out in the morning?”

“Well, you certainly took your time.” Balthazar droned, looking up from his book. He sprawled, legs crossed, on a rickety chaise in the parlor, next to a window hung with moth-eaten curtains. He laid the book on his chest.

“It went better than expected,” Castiel admitted, wondering if Balthazar could read what he’d just done from his face alone. 

“So it’s over? He’s not going to bother you again?”

Castiel sucked on his lower lip. “Not exactly.”

“He _is_ going to bother you?”

“I might have given him permission to call again. Tomorrow.”

“Oh my god,” Balthazar said. “You actually like him.”

“I--”

“Admit it.”

“I shouldn’t have judged him when we met. He was different today. Human.”

“Sooner or later, anyone would fall for his charms. He’s royalty!”

“Do you think he’s insincere?”

“I’m not in a position to say.”

“Balthazar...”

“I only know what I’ve heard. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Castiel chewed on his forefinger and paced in front of the window. “He asked me to meet him at the lake tomorrow. Am I making a mistake if I go?”

“Depends on what you want out of it.”

Castiel looked over Balthazar’s meager farm--rolls of hay in the distant field, untended plots nearer the house. When Naomi freed him, he’d have time to help work them.  

“You should’ve seen the food they brought,” he said through a sigh. “Cheese that costs more than we can bring in during a full day at the market, bread straight from the oven. I can’t remember the last time I ate so much. It was probably impolite.”

“Well, if a fling with the prince is what it takes to put a few pounds on your body, you have my rousing endorsement. Can you stay for tea?”

“Next time?” Castiel pulled the doublet over his head, fingers drifting across the velvet. 

He felt lighter walking through the field connecting Balthazar’s property to the Novak manor. He swung his arms and hummed a tune he remembered vaguely from his childhood, a song his father used to sing him to sleep, one his mother had sung when she rocked him as a baby. He touched his lips more than once, dizzy from the press of Dean’s mouth, of how it had felt to share breath, as if he’d touched Dean’s soul. 

The hot weather had prevented him from sleeping more than a few hours the night before, and he’d been sluggish completing his morning chores. When Balthazar had begun to scrub the dirt from his nail beds and hair and sprayed him with cologne, he’d swallowed any words of protest. It was a miracle he’d made it into the carriage at all. 

He’d had no idea that Dean planned to travel such a distance, or that they’d be gone so long. Castiel had lost all sense of time in the forest, unaware of the passing minutes once Dean had kissed him. The sun was already past its highest point in the sky; it was late afternoon.

He spent a few minutes admiring his flower garden, out of sight from any of the windows. He pressed the plane of his fingertips to his lips and kissed them, trying to recreate the sensation of Dean’s mouth, but it only made him feel foolish. He ducked inside with burning cheeks.

“She came downstairs while you were gone. She’s looking for you,” Hannah said as soon as she saw him. She and Anna both had their sleeves rolled up, scrubbing potatoes over the sink. A pot of water bubbled in the fireplace, rolling waves of heat into the already hellish kitchen. 

“What did you tell her?” he asked, mopping sweat from his brow. Immediately, new beads formed along his hairline and began to drip. 

“I said you’d gone on a walk to look for mushrooms.”

“I don’t think she believed it,” Anna added, winking. “Especially since you don’t have any.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. 

He found Naomi and Lucy upstairs in her bedroom, studying a gown spread across the foot of the bed. It had been tucked away for nearly two decades: a silver and white gown with tiny hand-sewn beads. His mother’s wedding dress. Inwardly, he felt a stab of betrayal and fury, but he couldn’t afford to make it known. 

“Where were you?” Naomi asked without looking up. She trailed a finger along a yellowing seam. Castiel straightened his posture but kept his head bowed. 

“I went for a walk.”

“You must’ve walked clear to the border,” Lucy said. 

“I apologize,” Castiel said. “I got turned around.”

“You? Get lost?” Naomi laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long. It won’t happen again.”

“I’d hope not.” Naomi’s voice was even, so pleasant that Castiel shivered. “You remember our conversation.”

“Yes.”

“Lucy and I are going to the royal court in the morning to seek an audience with the prince. She’ll be stunning in this gown at the mask, don’t you think?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Market tomorrow. Don’t return without a profit. And the front hall needs to be scrubbed, I think. There’s an awful lot of dust. I can’t invite a prince to sit down, in its current state. See that it’s done.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The furniture in the parlor, beat the cushions. And the windows--that room seems dark lately. Wash them all.”

“Of course.”

She smiled at him. “If I keep you better occupied at home, you won’t have a reason to go wandering.”

He nodded, numbed by the realization that the work she had just given him had dashed any hope of visiting the lake tomorrow. Balthazar was undoubtedly right. Castiel’s relationship with the prince was tenuous at best; it had no future. There was no possibility for anything more between them, but those few hours had given Castiel more joy than he’d experienced in a decade. 

He cupped a hand over his own ribs in the woods that night, fitful and unable to sleep. The trilling of insects did little to soothe him. The hand, he imagined, was Dean’s.

Morning came with a blaze of sun and moisture high in the air, threatening rain. Castiel prayed it would hold off a day. Night had done nothing for the heat, but the few hours of sleep had lifted his mood. If he worked quickly enough, there was still a chance he might reach the lake before sundown.

He weeded and swatted away flies and gnats in the garden before breakfast. The sun burned a stripe on the back of his neck. It ached when he touched it, uncomfortable whenever he turned his head and his collar dragged over his skin.

He and Anna took the potatoes to market along with two chickens. They were early enough to secure a good stall. It had a newer tent that kept the sun off of his face. He smiled politely at the patrons as they browsed, which had the effect that many more people stopped to buy from them.

“You have a lovely smile,” a woman with deep-set eyes and white hair told him. “It lights up the market.”

“He’s an angel,” Anna confided. The woman dropped coins into Castiel’s palm.

They sold out of potatoes before noon. The white hen went to a man just starting his farm. Castiel rubbed her beak before handing over the cage. He pocketed the coins and had begun to pack their things away when Anna touched his elbow.

A horn sounded.

“Hide,” she said.

He ducked behind the back of the stall, peering around the side in time to see Dean ride out of the palace on a sleek black mare. He was dressed for a hunt, trailed by mounted guards and two panting, yellow dogs. A second man rode beside him, hair similar in color but longer, falling almost to his shoulders. It had to be Samuel, Dean’s younger brother. He smiled and waved to onlookers as they rode past, but Dean kept his eyes straight ahead and waved to no one. Castiel was transfixed, watching Dean ride away, and thought, _I’ve kissed him and he’s kissed me_.

A crowd of noble men and women followed the hunting party. Castiel spotted Lucy at the front and wondered if she’d been granted her audience, if Dean had thought of Castiel when she fluttered her eyelashes.

Hunting would occupy Dean for a few hours, Castiel reasoned, perhaps all day. He resumed packing up their stand with a renewed enthusiasm.

But the cart wheel broke during the trip home, delaying them an hour. Castiel attempted rudimentary repairs. He found a fallen tree limb that was nearly straight, which he wedged in place of the broken axle, but it was futile. It wobbled out of place within a quarter mile and left them stranded again.

Castiel stayed with the cart. Hannah rode Lincoln home and came back with the smaller wagon. They took the unsold chicken and the good cart wheel with them, abandoning the rest on the road.

Naomi had to be told about the loss right away, so he went upstairs after watering the horse and putting her away. Naomi listened without interruption, and when Castiel was done, announced that the cost of the new cart would come out of Hannah’s wages.

In addition to the chores she’d given him yesterday, she added new ones. “I’m trying to _improve_ you, Castiel,” she said, hands idling on the ivory piano keys.

Sam was jubilant on the ride to the hunting cabin, holding the reins in one hand and gesturing with the other when he told Dean his news:

“Jess agreed to marry me.”

“Aw, Sammy, that’s...that’s great. Congratulations.”

“I know dad’s not big on the idea, but I was hoping you might talk to him for me.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because he’ll listen to you,” Sam said.

“What makes you think that?”

“Cause you’re his favorite.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“No it’s not. Dean, look. Dad and I haven’t seen eye to eye since I told him I wanted to study law, and he’s not going to listen to me if I bring this up. I’m asking you, do this for me, please, even if it’s just ‘cause I’m your brother.”

They rode for a distance in silence and Dean mulled over what Sam said before answering. “I can’t guarantee he’ll listen to a damn word I say, but if it means that much to you, I’ll talk to him.”

Sam gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Sammy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You ever think about being in dad’s place?”

“Instead of you?” Sam shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You got any interest in it?”

“Why are you talking like this?” Sam asked. “Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” Dean tightened his grip on the reins. “This engagement’s got me thinking crazy.”

“Tell me about this person you’re seeing.”

“His name’s Cas--Carver. Edlund. From Campbell.”

“Sounds familiar,” Sam said, squinting for a few steps. “I can’t place it. What’s he like?”

“He’s...I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe him.”

“Try. We’re only halfway there.”

“Um, he makes me laugh, I guess. Pisses me off. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Is it serious?” Sam asked.

“I’ve only known him a couple days.”

“You met him in court?”

“He came to get his servant back.”

“I heard about that. Benny said Alastair threw a fit, and Dad thought I was the one who ordered them released. This guy’s a good influence on you.”

Dean shrugged and rubbed his nose. Sam cocked his head.

“Do you have anyone else in mind?”

“That Lucille Novak, she’s not bad,” Dean said. “Wouldn’t exactly be a chore to have her on my arm.”

“That’s not what I hear. Jess’s mother has done work for that family. She says they’re two-faced, but I hear the one brother’s okay.”

“I only met one, and he seemed like a dick.”

“Hey,” Sam said, pointing to a rut in the path ahead. “Watch your step.”

Castiel beat the cushions with all of his frustration as the last of the sunlight faded. Disappointment constricted his throat and caused his eyes to sting. He wiped at them bitterly, smearing dust across his cheek, but what did it matter? Dean said he’d wait until sunset, and it was already dark. Castiel had missed him. He wished he’d never woken up that day in the orchard, that Dean had ridden past without his knowledge, that Castiel had never thrown an apple and looked upon Dean’s face. Then he could perform these tasks believing they were a means to his freedom, instead of the bars that held him.

He finished the last cushion and went inside to rearrange the room, then downstairs for food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His body shook, powered largely by adrenaline throughout the day, but now that his chores were done and he had no hope of seeing Dean, the exhaustion overwhelmed him. He went to the stable and cried in the corner, lulled by the sweet odor of hay and Lincoln’s familiar snort.

He barely _knew_ Dean. It was absurd to feel like this after only a few days, but he lowered his face to his knees. He cried until his throat was sore and his mouth was dry, then formed a pillow from clean hay and lay down to sleep. He wished he had his father’s Bible with him, the only thing he planned to take with him when he left.

He dreamed of Dean seated beneath a tree in the woods, but the longer he looked at him, the more bulging his eyes became. His lips thinned and his hair curled and grew dark, the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose vanishing. Dean reached for him with Marv’s hand and Castiel woke up screaming.

“Whoa,” Balthazar said, holding up his hands in innocence. “You were dreaming.”

The world felt heavy and slow, moving at half speed. Castiel blinked the exhaustion from his eyes until they watered, bracing himself against the stable wall to stand up. He didn’t bother to brush the hay from his clothes.

“Bad night?” Balthazar asked.

Castiel didn’t answer. Balthazar hummed and took a folded piece of paper from his belt.

“This arrived for you.”

Frowning, Castiel accepted it. He turned the letter over to view the seal; it bore an antelope. His throat tightened and his heart began to race. He broke the wax and tucked it in his pocket.

_Cas-- I apologize that I missed you today, but there was a matter I had to attend to. If it’s any consolation, my disappointment is greater than yours. When I am able to get away, I will send word to your cousin’s house. --Dean_

“I take it the news is good,” Balthazar quipped. “You’re pink as a suckling pig.”

“Shut up,” Castiel said, delighted, and wiped his eyes. “He says he’ll send word to me. Is it alright that I continue to use your house?”

“What good is my father’s house if I can’t abuse it for my own entertainment?” Balthazar swatted him on the head. “Go inside. Sleep in your bed for once.”

“It’s too hot,” Castiel complained, too dizzy now for sleep. He held the letter to his chest and sighed.

“Suit yourself. When I hear from your prince, I’ll be sure to let you know.”


	8. Chapter 8

Dean sent another letter two days later. This one arrived in the morning. Castiel was in the garden when he heard a distant horn announce a riding party. His heart picked up. He couldn’t see the front of Balthazar’s from where he knelt, but he imagined the same line of horses that had ripped through the orchard, standing at parade rest. Someone—perhaps Captain LaFitte, Dean’s personal guard—would go up to the door to deliver the message.

Birds called to one another from the nearby woods and darted in the sky overhead. The day was cloudy, which provided a break from the heat that hung like a blanket over the southern half of the country. But the humidity was still high, the air muggy and thick. For the third day in a row, it smelled like rain, but the rain didn’t fall. His skin felt tacky, knees dampened and black from kneeling in the soil. The lake would be welcome today.

When he carried breakfast upstairs, Naomi said scarce words to him, apparently assuaged by the work she had assigned him this week.

“Nice job on the windows,” Gabriel commented, grinning at Castiel. He speared a piece of sausage and ate it off his fork.

“Your manners,” Naomi reminded him with a stony expression.

“Sorry, mother,” Gabriel said in a falsely contrite voice. He ate the rest of the sausage whole. Naomi pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration; Gabriel caught Castiel’s eye and winked.

Naomi would be upset with Gabriel today and leave Castiel alone. He mouthed “ _thank you_ ” and gave a slight nod, set down the salt shakers, and went to wait for Balthazar to bring the letter.

Castiel came to the lake early afternoon. The sun was hot overhead. Birds called against a trill of insects, the sob of a mourning dove. The cloud cover had passed; a light breeze wasn’t enough to counter the sunshine. The shore radiated heat. Relieved to find he was the first to arrive, Castiel shed his clothes on the lake shore and waded into the water.

It filled his ears and muted the world above. He floated, sunlight beating his face and chest and thighs, cooling the burn on his neck. The lake held him, pressed against his back the way his father’s hands had when he’d taught Castiel to swim.

The light was strong even through his eyelids; he saw white and gold and crimson. He turned his head, angling it toward the far shore. His right ear lifted from the water. Sounds returned, and with them the weight of the day.

He swam until his body felt cold and no trace of the market or farm clung to him, then got out and sat naked on the grass with his legs outstretched. In the sun, his skin dried quickly. His hair too, curling at his ears. He ran fingers through it, in a vain attempt to tame it. His arms and shoulders ached from working. He rolled his neck to stretch them, groaning when pain streaked down his right side.

“Did I get you out of bed too early?” Dean teased behind him.

Castiel gasped, startled, but burst out laughing when he noted Dean’s appearance. He leaned against a tree in common clothes: cloth pants and a loose shirt cinched with a simple belt. But the shine on his boots gave him away.

“You were right.” Dean grinned and came closer, dropping next to Castiel on the ground. “No one looked at me twice in this getup. I walked right out the servant’s entrance.”

“No one remembers a commoner,” Castiel murmured.

“You do,” Dean said, kissing him in greeting. He lay back, folding his arms beneath his head and looking at the sky. “A woman said hello to me on the road. Just hello. Didn’t know who I was.” He was quiet for a moment. “I liked it.”

“She saw you as a person,” Castiel said, “instead of a prince.”

“She saw me like you do.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. Dean searched for his hand.

“I’m sorry I stood you up.”

Castiel didn’t confess that he hadn’t been able to come. He squeezed Dean’s hand and closed his eyes at the faint breeze. “Thank you for your letters.” He thought of them safely tucked inside the Bible. “My father used to write me when he traveled. I haven’t had a letter since he died.”

Dean propped up on an elbow and regarded Castiel quizzically. “How’s that possible?”

“They write to my stepmother, not to me.”

“Hm.” Dean reached up to brush a piece of hair from Castiel’s forehead. “Their loss.”

“You must write a lot of them.”

“Nah.” Dean shrugged and his eyes flicked away. “I’m not the writing type, but I didn’t trust anyone to get a message to you without it getting back to my father. Figured no one would be stupid enough to try and break the seal.” He paused and looked back at Castiel. “They were sealed, right?”

“Yes.”

The black wax seals hid under a floorboard with Dean’s letters.

“Good.” Dean sighed through his nose and plucked at his collar. “I’m hot. Want to go in?”

“In a minute,” Castiel said.

He eased the pad of his thumb along the outside of Dean’s thumb. Dean’s hands were wonderfully strong and calloused, not how Castiel imagined a prince’s hand would feel. Surely Dean didn’t work as Castiel did? Castiel’s hands bore a decade of silence on the issue of his own treatment, a reminder that he was powerless to do anything to change his situation. Balthazar had often suggested liquor and fornication to lift Castiel’s spirits, but he’d never had interest in either. Liquor might loosen his tongue unnecessarily, and he’d never met anyone he’d like to see in any state of undress—though he didn’t mind that he was naked and Dean’s hand formed a starburst on Castiel’s sternum.

Dean narrowed his eyes, taking in Castiel’s damp hair. “Cheater. You’ve already been in.”

“I was hot. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.”

“Come on,” Dean said, standing up. He fiddled with his belt. Castiel sat up halfway and bit his lip.

“Problem?”

“I _do_ know how to dress myself,” Dean muttered.

“So it’s just _un_ dressing that’s a problem.”

“Shut up,” Dean said through a snort. “Or at least help me.”

Castiel got up and batted Dean’s hands from the belt. He lifted the buckle and slid the belt from Dean’s waist. His shirt hung loose around his middle. Castiel held the belt in one hand and stared at Dean stupidly.

“What?” Dean said, looking down at himself. Castiel shook his head. Dean started toward the water. He yanked the shirt over his head and flung it to the ground, then kicked out of his pants. Castiel blushed at the sight of him nude: well-developed muscles in his back and shoulders, ass pale and round, knees that bowed outward. “Now we match.”

Dean stopped just at the water’s edge. Castiel stood at his back. Dean turned around, placing a hand on Castiel’s waist to draw them together, so their bodies touched from chest to hip, knees knocking together. Dean’s mouth was perfect and pliant when they kissed.

“Been thinking about doing that for two days.”

Castiel smiled against his lips. “So have I,” he said and kissed back.

Dean massaged his thumbs over Castiel’s bare hipbones. “I’m going in,” he said. He ran toward the water, flinching when the cold water swallowed his calves. “Shit, that’s cold!”

“You’re impatient.”

“I don’t get much time to myself.” Dean planted his hands on his hips and looked at the sky, clear blue with the threat of storm clouds in the distance, darkening the horizon. “Looks like more rain.”

Rain meant a reprieve from the heat, at least. Castiel’s skin was beginning to burn on his thighs and stomach. His forearms were already tanned, his nose raw and pink. He thought of how his body must look to Dean, with its patchwork of colors, and waded in after him. He placed greedy hands on Dean’s waist and waited for the order to stop, but it didn’t come. Dean was quiet and let Castiel touch him. He watched the sky. Castiel tilted his chin so that it rested on Dean’s shoulder, something he’d read about in a book but never imagined he’d do himself. He thought of how they must look, naked in waist-deep water, and his cheeks flushed.

When Dean turned his face toward Castiel’s, he anticipated another kiss, but Dean licked his lips and grinned.

“Race you,” he said and dived under water. He emerged with a shout two body lengths away, smile directed at the sun. Castiel steeled himself with a breath. He walked forward until the water bobbed at his waist, then bent his knees and sunk under. It blocked out the sun. He floated for the span of half a minute, until his lungs protested for air and there was a burning sensation in his neck and jaw, bulging pressure behind his eyes.

He came up gasping. Dean swam over to him. “Christ, scare a guy.”

Castiel apologized with a hand on Dean’s cheek. He fit their lips together. Dean tasted like the lake. He opened his mouth to let Castiel’s tongue inside, intimate in a way Castiel had never experienced and couldn’t have imagined.

“Will you touch me?” Dean murmured, almost lost in the wind across the surface. Castiel’s eyes blinked open, stomach fluttering.

“How?” He knew what Dean was asking, but he’d never touched anyone but himself. What if Dean didn’t like the way he did it?

But Dean didn’t laugh at his question. “Like this,” he said. He brushed his knuckles along Castiel’s stomach and the thatch of hair between his legs. Castiel’s abdominal muscles clenched and he jerked at the sensation, closing his eyes and bracing himself with both hands on Dean’s shoulders when Dean’s fingers closed around his length. His cock grew heavy and insistent. He pushed into Dean’s hand, but Dean withdrew it, positioning them so their bodies met underwater. When Dean’s arousal nudged Castiel’s stomach, they both shuddered.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head and kissed Dean so hard their teeth clacked. “I’ve never had occasion,” he said.

Dean cupped Castiel’s ass and rocked their hips together. Castiel rutted against Dean’s skin, different from the rough circle of his own hand—smooth and slick. He thrust and tried to kiss Dean at the same time, but he couldn’t find a rhythm, panting into Dean’s open mouth instead.

Dean nudged Castiel’s legs apart and inserted his knee between them. Castiel rubbed against his thigh, a shiver coursing through him like lightning. Water sloshed around them. Dean’s freckles stood out against the pink flush on his chest and cheeks. His eyes were very green. Castiel said so. Dean laughed and brought an arm around his waist, the other cradling the back of Castiel’s neck.

“Is this okay?” Dean murmured. Castiel smiled and canted his pelvis with more confidence. He held tight to Dean’s shoulders. The friction of his cock against Dean’s skin was almost painful, but he thrust until a kaleidoscope of colors burst in his eyes and he fell back, letting the water catch him.

“I’ve never done that with someone else before,” he breathed, floating in his euphoria, momentarily without a care.

Dean kissed the center of his chest and the place over his heart. Castiel buzzed with life, like his garden after the rain. His garden held the colors of Dean’s eyes.

Dean put his arms around Castiel’s back. In his earlier distraction, Castiel hadn’t noticed the tattoo over Dean’s heart: a five-pointed star ringed in flame. He righted himself and traced a finger around it.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s for protection,” Dean said, frowning. “I understood it was part of my mother’s heritage.”

Castiel realized that Dean expected him to recognize it, as a citizen of Campbell.

“I’ve never seen it in person,” he lied. He touched it again and felt wretched about his lie, lowering his mouth to it in atonement. Dean’s pectoral muscle jumped beneath his lips.

He kissed a trail of freckles from Dean’s chest to his neck, ending beside his ear. “Would you still like me to touch you?” he whispered. Dean kissed him and clasped Castiel so tightly there wasn’t any space between their chests.

Castiel kept his hand loose, his movements slow—it would hurt otherwise. It was almost like touching himself. Dean pressed his fingers into Castiel’s neck and side. When Castiel turned his wrist, Dean’s blunt fingernails bit into his skin and Dean moaned quietly, tucking his face in Castiel’s neck.

Castiel felt powerful for the first time in his life: Dean’s pleasure was in his control. He held him and continued steady, gentle pulls until Dean whined and began to roll the skin on Castiel’s neck between his teeth—not firmly enough to break it, but hard enough to bruise. Castiel pictured Dean’s claim on him, a red mark that would advertise this indiscretion for days, but it didn’t strike him as perverse like similar marks he’d seen on Balthazar’s neck.

Castiel was a servant. Dean would soon be engaged to someone else, but Castiel knew Dean’s name and held Dean in his arms and had his letters concealed beneath a floorboard. This meant something. Castiel promised himself this meant something, that what was happening between them couldn’t be a mistake.

Dean wound his fingers in Castiel’s wet hair, tugging harder when his breathing became labored, so Castiel slowed his hand, which punched a deep laugh from Dean’s throat.

“You asshole,” he muttered, thrusting into the circle of Castiel’s fist. He came smiling against Castiel’s throat. Castiel felt the hard line of his teeth and flooded with pride when Dean slumped against him.

“I needed that,” Dean said. He pressed his mouth to the forming bruise on Castiel’s neck, soothing it with a kiss. “I brought lunch. Are you hungry?”

They couldn’t eat in the water, but getting out meant letting go of Dean. Now that Castiel knew first-hand how it felt to have another person so close to him, he thought he’d like to stay in the lake forever. But his stomach growled in favor of food, so he reluctantly went to shore.

Dean spread a blanket on the ground and laid out sandwiches and fruit and a pouch of wine. Castiel ate an unblemished pear with exuberance and guilt, even though he knew Hannah would never begrudge him food. Still, he wished he could bring some home to her and Anna. Each bite burst on his tongue, juice spilling down his lips to pool in the dip of his chin. He wiped it away with a sigh. It tasted like childhood, of long hot summer walks. He swallowed, taking another bite and another. Dean watched him quietly.

Castiel drank the wine freely. Compounded with the heat and his excitement, it quickly went to his head, tossing his thoughts as the lake tossed debris at the shoreline. Full and warm and nearly dry, he turned his back toward the sun and wrapped both arms around his knees. He rested his head on them, skin growing blistering hot before blooming with sweat. It beaded and trickled down his body.

“Where did you get these?” Dean said. Castiel blinked dazedly at the question, drowsy from the sun and a little drunk.

“What?” he said, smiling.

Dean’s mouth formed an unhappy line. He touched a place on Castiel’s back and another. A third. A fourth. He ran his fingertip along Castiel’s skin in stripes. Castiel didn’t have to ask what Dean was looking at. He heard a phantom switch slice the air and crack against his skin; felt the initial sting and lingering burn, the ever-present ache of his shirt dragging over open wounds. Naomi didn’t whip him often, but he bore the scars of disobedience.

Dean stilled his hand between Castiel’s shoulder blades.

“Let’s not spoil the afternoon,” Castiel said, bumping the wine against Dean’s lips. Dean kept quiet but drank.

They finished the wine and stretched out on the shore. Castiel lay his head on Dean’s chest even though it was too hot to be touching. A skim of sweat pooled under his cheek. It might’ve been his sweat or Dean’s sweat or the two mixed. He panted in the heat, listening to Dean’s heart as Dean stroked a hand over his back and shoulder, not quite mapping the scars.

They swam once more before Castiel had to leave, coming together in chest-deep water. Castiel wrapped his arms and legs around Dean and kissed him like it could fuse them.

“How much longer are you here?” Dean asked as he packed away their lunch. He did it badly, so Castiel took over, chewing his lip before he answered.

“I don’t know,” he said.

When they parted at the edge of the woods, Dean slid a hand into Castiel’s hair.

“Meet me here tomorrow?”

“Won’t they miss you?”

“I don’t care,” Dean said, kissing Castiel goodbye. Castiel could feel the shape of his lips, the damp impression they’d left on his mouth, during the mile-walk home through the orchard.


	9. Chapter 9

The following day brought steady rain. Dean found himself restricted to the palace grounds on his father’s orders while servants made final preparations for the mask.

“I won’t tolerate you sneaking off again!” John bellowed when Dean said he planned to go riding with Benny after breakfast, in spite of the weather. John’s face was red, fists tight at his sides before he stomped out. Dean huffed, turning toward the window, and ordered food sent to his room. He focused on the line of storm clouds barreling toward the palace, a dark stain on the sky. Cas wasn’t foolish enough to go out in this weather, but Dean thought of him waiting at the lake, that ridiculous getup of his soaked through and clinging, transparent, to his chest and arms.

Servants lit candles before midday. Dean carried one up the staircase to his bedroom and set it on his desk. He watched it until it hurt his eyes, flickering like a phantom in his field of vision even after he looked away.

He found an old coin purse—he’d given his best one to that servant in the orchard—and filled it, holding it against his heart and prayed to whatever might be listening. He’d never been much for praying, but he asked for help before he summoned Benny inside.

Benny looked apologetic but shook his head when Dean offered him the bribe.

“Take a letter for me, at least,” Dean said. When Benny refused again, Dean grasped his bicep and shoved the coin purse into his chest. “It’s just a letter, man. Benny, c’mon, please. I’m begging here.”

Benny gently pushed Dean’s hands away. “The king threatened to exile anyone caught helping you escape. Dean, you know I see you as a brother, but—”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

Rain gusted sideways through the open window, soaking his sleeve. Dean latched the window shut and shook himself dry, knocking the candle off of the desk. It struck the floor and extinguished, splattering wax on the tapestry and his boots.

“Dammit,” he cursed and kicked the wall out of frustration. The coin purse fell with a clatter.

“You really like him,” Benny said, surprised. Dean covered his face with both hands and shrugged, exhaling hot into his palms. Benny touched his elbow. “If you write him a letter, I’ll see he gets it.”

Dean’s foot throbbed, but Benny’s words halved his anger. He nodded once, grateful, and uncovered his face.

“We never had this conversation,” Dean said. “I’ll swear on it. I won’t let you get in trouble.”

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” Benny asked, winking, and went into the hallway on a whistle.

Dean scrawled a note to Cas, requesting to meet at the ruins as soon as the rain broke—he’d find a way to sneak out, even if it meant scaling the outer wall again. He blew on the ink to hasten its drying, then started for the door, pausing when he realized there could be any number of people in the hallway. He scanned the room for something to conceal the letter, selecting a book of children’s stories he used to read Sam.

“Going to the stables,” he said, shoving the book into Benny’s hands. “You coming?”

“What is this?”

“For the new baby,” Dean said. He lowered his voice as a servant approached. “Just open it up before you give it to her.” He held Benny’s gaze until Benny winked and tucked the book under his arm.

“I’m sure my baby will thank you for this gift once it’s born, your highness.”

They stopped by the kitchen first to nab fruit for the horse, then ran the distance to the palace stable in sheeting rain. Dean’s hair was soaked and flattened to his head by the time they got inside. Benny positioned himself at the door and nodded for Dean to go on alone.

The stable was a long corridor with stalls on either side and a large tack room—Dean’s favorite part of the palace grounds. Bobby lived in the house out back. Horses snorted and stomped impatiently in their stalls as he went past, inhaling the sweet, familiar odor of hay. His father’s horse, a chestnut thoroughbred named Sierra, swatted flies with his tail.

Dean found Bobby mucking out an empty stall and mumbling to himself about the weather. Bobby had been a second father to Dean, teaching him how to ride, how to repair his leathers. Dean had been present for the birth of half the palace horses and been an expert at gelding since he was twelve. He crossed his arms and leaned in the open stall door.

“Hey, old man.”

“If you came in here to chew my ear, you’d better get to work,” Bobby said, clutching his lower back. He winced when he stood up straight. “Grab a pitchfork.”

Dean obeyed, selecting one with a semi-smooth handle. He opened Baby’s stall and patted her side, holding out an apple on his palm. She ate it without hesitation and stared at him for another. He stroked her neck and gave it to her.

“That’s all I have,” he said when she nudged his hand. She made a discontented noise and dropped her head to resume eating hay.

“What’s got you in a mood?” he called to Bobby.

“Boy, you’ve got your daddy wound tight. I’m not supposed to let you near that horse, but it just so happens she doesn’t like anyone but you.”

“Don’t listen to him, Baby. Besides, you’d like Cas well enough.” Dean tossed a matted clump of hay toward the door.

“I hear _you_ like this Cas well enough,” Bobby muttered, coming into the stall with a wheelbarrow. Baby flattened her ears when he began to pile the soiled hay on top.

“Where’d you hear that?” Dean asked.

Bobby scowled and bobbed his head in Benny’s direction.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than listen to gossip?”

“Are you planning to continue seeing him?” Bobby asked.

“You mean after the wedding?”

“I mean in place of.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll just tell my father that not only am I refusing to help secure a treaty with Callaway, I want to marry someone who can’t produce an heir.”

Bobby cast him a sour look. “Dean, what kind of world do you think we live in? The Dark Ages?”

“It’s bad enough Sammy wants to marry a commoner without me throwing fuel on the fire.”

“Family is what you make it, boy, not what’s in your veins. Your father knows that. Stop making excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses for anything.”

Bobby leaned his pitchfork against the barn wall and dried his face on a cloth. Bits of hay hitchhiked in his beard and on his clothes.

“That stall’s clean.” Bobby sighed and readjusted his cap. “Help me water them.”

They walked quietly together down the aisle toward the troughs. Bobby patted each horse after they refilled its bucket, dug a rock out of Sierra’s hoof when he noticed him favoring a leg. He pitched the rock down the aisle, toward the door. It struck the ground with a dull sound. Dean felt the phantom touch of Cas’s hand molding his into the correct shape and scowled.

“Dean,” Bobby began. “I’ve known you since you were born. You’re like family to me, which is why I’m going to give it to you honest.”

“What’s that?”

“You enjoy being a martyr. You always have. I felt sorry for you when your mother died. We all did. But you’ve allowed that loss to define you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Son, you sabotage your own opportunities, then act surprised when things don’t turn out the way you planned.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Your father’s finally given you permission to pick the person you marry, so instead of proposing to this Cas fellow, you decide you’re going to marry the one your father chose after all.”

“It’s my responsibility.”

Bobby scowled. “My god, boy, you are determined to be miserable.”

“I’m not listening to this,” Dean said. He turned on his heel and stormed toward the palace with Bobby shouting after him into the rain:

“Get your head out of your ass and talk to your father.”

Balthazar, drenched and giving Castiel the stink eye, brought a letter to the kitchen door just before lunch. Castiel clutched it to his chest and opened it against the outside wall, protected from the rain by the eave. The paper was water spotted, but the ink hadn’t run. Castiel smiled at Dean’s handwriting. The letter was brief. Dean had signed it with his first initial. Castiel slipped the wax seal into his pocket to hide with the others and slid the letter into his waistband. There wasn’t time to put them in the attic just now.

The letter asked him to come to the church ruins once the rain let up. Castiel glanced at the sky; the storm had chased the sun away. It was nearly as dark now, at midday, as it would be at sunset, and would probably rain all night. He wanted to go immediately, but if he got caught out in the storm, he’d be soaked through unless he borrowed Balthazar’s carriage, and there was still the walk between their manors to consider. He couldn’t risk getting sick. If Naomi believed he was being disobedient or lazy, it could mean longer until his freedom, if he was given it at all. No, he couldn’t go today.

With a hand to his stomach to feel the paper against his skin, he doubled his efforts, scrubbing out the cast iron pot and peeling all of the potatoes for dinner, so Hannah was free to help tailor clothing for the mask. Lucy had chosen to masquerade as a morning star, in the silver wedding gown that had belonged to Castiel’s mother. There was nothing he could do about it. If he hid the dress, they would undoubtedly suspect him and search the manor. Burning it would be a waste. No. Lucy would wear the dress to the ball and Castiel wouldn’t protest. His heart broke when Hannah ripped through a seam.

He brought them lunch, expecting to be immediately dismissed, but Naomi instructed him to stand behind Lucy and hold her crown while Hannah decided how to pin it in place. Minutes passed. His arms grew sore and began to shake. Lucy watched him in the mirror, eyes flitting to his waist where the letter was concealed. He saw the edge of it sticking out from beneath his shirt and set his jaw, hoping she didn’t ask about it. As soon as Naomi excused him, he hurried to the attic, taking the stairs two at a time.

He hadn’t been upstairs in days because of the weather. The temperature had dropped a few degrees due to the storm, but it was still humid and Castiel’s face dotted with sweat. The attic was a large space—ironically, his bedroom was the largest in the house—interrupted by furniture and art in storage, a stack of Naomi’s trunks she’d brought from Campbell and never unpacked. Castiel moved the floorboard aside and put the letter inside with the others, touching the Bible’s worn cover that recalled his father’s hands.

There was a sound on the stairs—a creak in the top step. It had needed fixing for years but never made the sound on its own. Castiel raised his head, heart beating wildly. Sometimes a cat followed him up, but the doorway was empty. He strained, listening for signs of life: breathing, softly retreating footsteps, but heard nothing.The house _was_ old, he reasoned with himself, or the sound might have been his imagination. It was nothing. He tucked the letter away.

He remembered the seal too late, when he was nearly downstairs, thrusting a hand into his pocket to retrieve it. His finger poked through a hole in the seam. He blanched, remembering that he’d been on three floors since opening the letter; the seal could be anywhere. Searching for it would be futile. He prayed that, if found by anyone else, it would be mistaken for trash and forgotten.

The rain continued into the night, a steady downpour that brought temperatures low enough that Castiel climbed the stairs to his attic room once his chores were complete. He stretched across his bed. It was the one he’d had as a child, too nice for a servant, but Naomi had never ordered it removed.

His mind constructed leviathan from the shadows, monsters that reached for him with dark, terrible hands. He closed his eyes to forget their faces and wondered if he would ever lie with Dean in a bed like this.

Anna woke him with a hand on his shoulder, shaking him until he opened his eyes.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, squinting. The attic was bright; the birds had finished their early-morning song. The rain had slowed, striking in a light patter against the windowpanes.

“Why are you still in bed?” she asked.

 _I’m tired_ , Castiel wanted to say. _It’s comfortable_. But he smiled in contrition and covered a yawn.

“I overslept.”

“Are you sick?”

He glanced out the window, trying to guess the day’s conditions. The sky was flat gray to the horizon. It would probably drizzle all afternoon.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“Hannah and I covered for you. I don’t think she noticed you aren’t up, but you’d better hurry. She’s in a mood.”

“Where are they?”

“She and Lucy are in her room with Hannah. They’re finishing the dress. I don’t know where Gabriel went.”

“Thank you, Anna. You’d better go, before they catch you up here.”

“Are you going to tell me yourself what you’ve been up to lately, or do I have to get all of my information from Hannah?” she asked, touching a mark on his neck with a smile, then slipped downstairs.

Castiel pulled on clean clothes and reached the kitchen without being noticed, but as soon as he opened the back door to peer at his garden, Gabriel cleared his throat. Castiel jumped.

“Sleep well?” Gabriel asked. He leaned against the counter.

“You started me,” Castiel answered with a hand over his heart to settle it, the other on the door handle. “I slept fine. You?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I’ll sleep better once this mask is over. My mother and Lucy won’t shut up about it, or about the mysterious person from Campbell the prince has supposedly been seen with.”

“Oh?” Castiel croaked.

“I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that.”

“Why would I...?” Castiel began to protest, but the look on Gabriel’s face silenced him. Gabriel tossed him the seal.

“You’re lucky I’m the one who picked this up.”

“It’s not what you think,” Castiel said.

“Isn’t it?”

With a glance at the stairs, Castiel motioned toward the garden. Gabriel followed him outside and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder underneath the eave. Water dripped from the roof onto the toes of Castiel’s boots.

“What are they saying?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, the usual court gossip: the prince has been sneaking off until all hours with an Edlund of Campbell. It’s funny—that’s the name of the author who wrote that book you loaned me.”

“Gabriel.” Castiel spoke to the ground. “I only went to court to get Anna back. I never expected to meet anyone, let alone...”

“I don’t care what you and the prince get up to,” Gabriel interrupted. “I think it’s hilarious, personally. My sister’s upstairs plotting to infiltrate the palace, and you’ve already done it. How did you meet him?”

“I knocked him off a horse. I didn’t know who he was, Gabriel, I swear. We met again, later, at the royal court. He doesn’t know I’m the same person.”

“Incredible. How has he been getting you letters?”

“Through Balthazar.”

Gabriel snorted. “Of course.”

“Please don’t tell her.”

“And face my mother’s wrath? Please. Are you going to the mask?”

Castiel kicked at the dirt and shook his head. “I don’t have the stomach for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s going to announce his engagement. I don’t want to be there for that.”

“You’re not the brightest, are you.” Gabriel swatted him on the head. “Talk is he’s going to ask Carver—that is, _you_ —in her place.”

“How?”

“I think it’s customary to kneel, but, uh.” He flicked a bruise on Castiel’s neck that fit the impression of Dean’s teeth. “I’m guessing you already did that.”

“Gabriel!”

“I’m also guessing he has no idea who you really are.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Are you going to let him find out in front of an audience?”

“I wasn’t planning for him to find out at all!”

“When are you supposed to meet him?”

With a sigh, Castiel answered, “When the rain lets up.”

“I’ll make sure you can get out of here.”

“What will you do?”

“You know I love creating diversions,” Gabriel said with a grin. “I’ll think of something.”

“You’ve always been kind to me.”

“You never deserved the way she treated you. I never understood it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. Gabriel studied the clouds, nodding toward a bright point in the distance.

“Looks like it’ll ease up in a couple hours.”

He nudged Castiel’s shoulder and left him alone in the garden.


	10. Chapter 10

The rain broke a little before supper, and Naomi called Castiel to her with Dean’s letters in her fist.

“Where did you get these?” she demanded. Her eyes flashed with the fury of the storm. Lucy stood behind her with a match in hand; behind her, the fireplace smoldered.

Castiel paled. He wet his lips and stammered, “I—I can explain...” but Naomi cut him off, opening the first letter and reading it aloud. Dean’s words sounded perverse from her mouth.

“This is where you’ve been going?” she asked when she was finished.

He lowered his chin. “Yes, my lady.” Naomi threw the letters onto the fire. Castiel cried out in protest, dropping to his knees to retrieve them, but the fire had already begun its consumption. With a hand on his arm, Gabriel held him back.

“You’ll burn yourself,” he whispered.

The ivory paper curled, glowing bright red along the edge before the black leached in. A few more seconds and the writing was gone. Castiel felt blank.

“Bring me the switch,” he heard her order and closed his eyes to wait.

She wrenched up his shirt. He was numb as the strokes fell across his back; he lost count of them after thirteen. She lashed him until she’d appeased her own anger and the pain throbbed in his teeth. He crawled up to the attic and lay on his stomach, weeping into his bed. Naomi would never grant his freedom now. He was bound for a life of servitude, all for a handful of ashes and a day by the lake.

But even now, his heart wanted nothing more than to see Dean, to know that Dean was home and safe. What if Castiel went to the palace? Would Dean listen if he tried to explain? Or would Castiel find himself exiled or hanged, knowing he had brought this on himself, that he’d given up everything for one man?

Anna brought a bowl of water and strips of cloth that she used to wash away blood and laid across his back to relieve the swelling.

“Oh, Castiel,” she murmured.

“The Bible,” he croaked. He pointed toward the open piece of flooring. “Did she take it?”

“No,” Anna said. “Lucy found your hiding place. I knew I had to leave something there. I’m sorry it was his letters, but the Bible is safe. It’s under my mattress.”

He sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

She was quiet. She laid three more strips on his back. “You should’ve let them send me to Campbell.”

“Don’t say that.”

She wrung out the last cloth and placed it across his right shoulder blade. “This wouldn’t have happened,” she said.

“It would be worse for you.”

She smiled down at him. “You never think of yourself,” she said. She kissed his cheek and collected the bowl of bloody water. “I’ll wake you as soon as the rain stops.”

“Did you read them?” Castiel asked.

Anna blushed and went out.

Castiel sneaked out of the manor, limping to Balthazar’s, but refused to answer any questions. He begged for clothes, begged for a horse, and came to the ruins an hour before sundown.

It had been a church once, but what remained was the east wall with a hole where a window used to fit. It rose to a point under a stand of oaks, looming over as if in worship. Dean sat in the remains of a large window in the stone wall, but he got up as soon as he saw Castiel.

“Hey.” Dean cupped Castiel’s face in his hands and kissed him for a long minute. “I waited for you all day.”

“In the rain?” Castiel asked, touching Dean’s wet shirt.

“Wanted to see you. I bribed one of the servants.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathed. He threaded his hands into Dean’s damp hair and brought their faces closer, hopeful that Dean could somehow take the last two days from him, erase them if Castiel kissed him hard enough. But even though they were together, and Dean’s lips were crushed against his, Castiel trembled. Dean must’ve mistaken it for cold, drawing Castiel against his chest and holding him.

Castiel’s anxiousness subsided and he sagged into Dean’s body, listening to his heart, quiet and calm in this halcyon place until Dean tightened his hold. The pressure on his back was too much; Castiel stiffened and gasped with pain.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, releasing him. He placed a hand on either of Castiel’s shoulders and tried to meet his eyes, but Castiel only shook his head in response as the pain throbbed.

“I’m fine,” he lied through a forced smile. He stepped away and wrapped his arms around his waist, but Dean’s expression darkened. He narrowed his eyes and lifted the edge of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel made a despaired noise, covering his face, and looked away.

“Who did this to you?” Dean asked, murderously low. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill whoever it was.”

Castiel shook his head again. “It’s not—it’s nothing. Just a sunburn.”

“Someone _beat_ you.”

“Dean, please,” Castiel begged. “Let it go.”

“How?”

“Because I’m asking you to. Please trust me.”

Dean looked furious, nostrils flared and his face red, but when Castiel took his hands, he stilled. Residual raindrops fell from overhead. One splashed on Castiel’s forehead and rolled to his lips. He licked it away and lifted his mouth to Dean’s, whose lips were tense when he kissed back. Dean smelled like the rain and the outdoors. He held carefully to Castiel’s shoulders. 

A horse snorted, startling them, and scraped the ground with a hoof. Castiel had been so intent on seeing Dean, he hadn’t noticed it tethered to a nearby tree. The horse was black with a glossy coat, the one he’d seen Dean ride through the market. He let go of Dean’s hands and picked his way through the ruins toward it.

“That’s my Baby,” Dean said. “She was my father’s horse until she got too old for long trips, so now she’s mine.”

“She’s lovely.” Castiel held up a hand so she could smell his fingers. She sniffed them with disinterest, then lowered her head to graze. He pulled fingers through her mane.

“Sit with me?” Dean asked, indicating the log. Castiel sat gingerly beside him. Dean threaded their hands together and held tight.

The mask was just a few hours away. By midnight, Dean would be engaged to someone else. Castiel would be sold or on the run, and meeting like this would be impossible. _This is the last time we’ll do this_ , thought Castiel.

“Dean,” he whispered, despaired. He tightened his grip on Dean’s hand, desperate for the moment to last him a lifetime, something beautiful he could look back on.

“Cas, I gotta ask you something.”

“Mmm?”

“Would you marry me, if I asked?”

Castiel’s mouth opened in surprise. “What?”

Dean lifted a hand to Castiel’s face and cupped his cheek. “See, uh. My father gave me until today to choose, and... ” He trailed off, easing his thumb over Castiel’s cheekbone. His eyes followed the movement. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Are—” Castiel began. He kissed Dean’s palm lushly and took a breath. “ _Are_ you asking?”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to his. “Yes. I was gonna wait ‘til tonight, but...well, I wasn’t sure if you were planning on coming. I mean, we hadn’t talked about it, and I didn’t want to presume, but...what do you think?”

“About marrying you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sounding exasperated, but he smiled and rubbed his neck, looking at Castiel hopefully.

“There are things I have to tell you,” Castiel said.

Dean smiled. “We got our whole lives for that.”

“What I have to tell you will change your mind.”

“It won’t,” Dean vowed, kissing each corner of Castiel’s mouth. “I finally understand the way Sammy looks when he talks about Jess. Carver, please come tonight.”

It was the wrong name. It was the wrong name, but it was the name he’d given. He had to refuse. If he didn’t, he’d only hurt both of them irreparably. But Dean looked so happy, the expression on his face mirrored in the effervescent feeling in Castiel’s chest, and he couldn’t say no. His mouth was dry and his back throbbed dully, but he said, “Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll come to the mask, if it’s what you want.”

“I have to get back,” Dean said. “Once it gets dark, they’ll send the troops out after me. I’m surprised Benny hasn’t already been here.”

“It’s his job to protect you.”

“I know.”

“You really won’t marry her?” Castiel asked, trailing a finger along Dean’s jaw.

Dean shook his head and kissed Castiel a final time, sweet but possessive. He untied his horse and swung a leg over her side. “I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Yes.”

“Are you accepting my proposal?”

“Yes,” Castiel repeated, dazed. Dean looked radiant astride the horse, beaming down at him.

“God, Cas,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss Castiel a final time. “You know how to make a guy smile.”

Dean rode off, away from the ruins and Castiel, who cursed himself in the hollowed-out church.

He wept openly along the walk home, tears spilling down both cheeks, but he didn’t brush them away. He ought to pack a bag. Something small he could easily carry with him to the border. After tonight, assuming he was right and Dean took the news badly, Castiel would certainly be exiled. But he would try.

The family finished dressing for the mask. Castiel retrieved his father’s Bible from Anna, a handful of pearls from his mother’s broken necklace, his favorite of Edlund’s books. He tucked them into a worn sack and hid them in Lincoln’s stall. He’d take her as well, as far as she’d carry him.

But his plans were broken when Naomi grabbed him by the wrist when he returned from the stable.

“I won’t let you ruin this for us. I’ll make sure he knows exactly what you are.”

Castiel thought of overpowering her. It would be simple to break her hold on his arm and run. He possessed the physical strength, but she was nobility and had the backing of the law. If they caught him before he reached safety, there was no chance of sympathy. His only option was to let her believe she’d succeeded in stopping him, and wait for her to leave before making his escape.

He allowed her to march him to the cellar. She locked him inside and pocketed the key. Gabriel’s face was sympathetic. Lucy, radiant in the silver gown, looked on from the stairs.

“Don’t think I won’t hesitate to sell you if you let him out,” Naomi said with a glance to Hannah. “Gabriel, Lucy, let’s go.”

Gabriel held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned and followed after her. She called for Anna, who obediently went.

The horse whinnied. Carriage wheels creaked, and with the crack of a whip, they were gone.

Hannah wasted no time before straightening a piece of wire and attempting to pick the lock. Castiel stood against the far wall, with his back against the cold stone.

“She’ll know it was you,” he said.

Hannah met his eye. “Would you leave me in here?” She fiddled with the wire, prodding the inner workings of the lock. “Where are you planning to go?”

“The sea, maybe.”

“I’m sure there’s work there.”

“You can come with me, if you want.”

She shook her head. “I only stayed here because of you. I’ve thought about trying to secure work elsewhere.”

“Hannah!” Castiel admonished.

“Anna and I were both upset by what happened to your father. And the baroness isn’t the worst employer, believe me. You can do worse than a sour mood.”

They lapsed into silence. Hannah worked on the lock for nearly twenty minutes, but it didn’t budge.

“Castiel, I’m sorry,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “That key is the only copy.”

“It’s alright,” he said. He reached through the bars and touched her hand. “Thank you, for everything.”

“She’ll sell you.”

“Take care of Anna.”

“There has to be a way to get you out of here,” Hannah said.

“There is, only it requires imagination, which both of you apparently lack.”

Balthazar smirked at them from the stairs. Anna peered over his shoulder, out of breath.

“I ran and got him,” she said, panting.

“We came back on a horse,” Balthazar said. “And we don’t have much time. The mask is starting soon.”

“I’m not going to the mask, even if you do get me out of here,” Castiel said. “Not after this.”

“Oh, yes you are, if I have to drag you there myself. Not letting all my hours of hard work go to waste. Someone get me a rag.”

Anna fetched one from beside the sink. Balthazar wrapped it around his hand, then eased both pins from the cellar door hinges. He dropped them with a clatter and yanked the door open wide enough for Castiel to slip out.

“How did you know how to do that?” Anna asked.

“When you’re in trouble as much as I am, you learn a thing or two.” He put an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “Come, Cassie. I have to show you my creation.”

Castiel shook his head. “My things are in the stable. There isn’t time to speak with Dean. I need to leave now, before Naomi—”

“Do you care for him?” Balthazar asked.

“Of course.”

“Then he deserves to hear the truth from you. If he’s the person you believe him to be, he’ll understand.”

“And if not?”

“Then I think we’ll all enjoy a seaside vacation very much. Lawrence is getting a bit tired.”

The party sounds echoed outward from the palace for a mile: string music, voices amplified by wine. Torches blazed around the perimeter of the dance floor, writhing with costumed guests, their faces obscured by ornamented and feathered masks.

Dean remained safely out of sight, mask-free, watching the arriving carriages from a position in the garden. They came in great number, lining up along the expansive drive that ended outside the palace gates. He flattened himself against a sculpted hedge when the baroness of Novak went past with her son and daughter. After nearly an hour, the frequency of new arrivals tapered off, until no more carriages came up the drive.

Dean watched the last one stop and two laughing women emerge. Their carriage advanced to wait with the others.

Cas would come. When he did, Dean would march him straight up to the king and make his intentions known. It was pointless to be upset when Cas would be here any minute.

He realized he was pacing when Sam discovered his hiding place.

“Figured you’d be out here,” Sam said. He sidled up next to Dean and passed him a measure of whiskey. “Worried he won’t show up?”

“Nervous.” Dean took a swig and wiped a hand over his mouth. The whiskey burned on the way down, steadying him. He pounded his chest. “Is Jess here?”

“Yes.” Sam blushed.

“When do I get to meet her?”

“As soon as I meet Cas. You’re really going through with this?”

Dean shrugged. “I’ve only known him a couple weeks, but it feels like longer. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to.” Sam adjusted a pair of antlers on his head where his crown should be. Dean laughed when he noticed them.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a deer. Jess is a huntress.”

“Aw, ain’t that cute.”

Sam poked him in the chest. “What’s this getup?”

“Prince Charming.” Dean flashed him a grin and showed off his best breeches and jacket: white with gold trim, crown crooked on his head. “I didn’t even need a costume.”

“Does Cas know how lame your jokes are?”

A number of palace guards bustled past. Dean put a finger to his lips and they were both silent until the last one was a safe distance away.

“You have to go in eventually,” Sam whispered.

“I’ll go in once he gets here.”

They drank until the whiskey made Dean sullen. He compensated for his mood with bigger sips. Between the two of them, they drained the bottle in twenty minutes and Cas still hadn’t shown up.

“He’ll be here,” Sam told him, scowling when Dean pitched the bottle behind them into a bush.

“Course he’ll be here.”

But when ten more minutes passed, Dean had to accept that Cas might not be coming after all.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason he’s late,” Sam said. “Maybe we should go up. They’ll announce him when he arrives.”

“I’m waiting here.”

“Fine.”

“You go. I’m sure Jess is wondering where you are.”

“I’m with my brother,” Sam said, so heartfelt Dean had to roll his eyes. Sam nudged him in the ribs.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam pointed toward the driveway, where a lone carriage rolled up toward the palace and stopped. Dean held his breath. The driver hopped down, offering his hand to the person inside.

Cas, in a dark shirt and pants and tall black boots, emerged from the carriage, trailed by a pair of wings folded on his back. The driver—Dean recognized him as the earl’s son, Balthazar—extended them on either side of Cas’s body—huge black wings, thin enough that light could pass through. They seemingly glowed against the torches, creating a halo of light around his hair.

Balthazar touched Cas’s chin. When Cas raised his eyes, Dean saw that his cheeks shone silver, otherworldly in the moonlight.

“You should see your face,” said Sam. “I haven’t seen you this excited since dad gave you his horse.”

“You—you better _shut_ your face.”

“That’s him right?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Then you’re standing in the wrong place.” Sam gave him a firm shove toward the drive.

Dean’s heart beat so hard, he could hear it as he walked. His mouth and throat went dry. His pulse jumped in his neck and wrists when Cas turned toward him, expression brightening the instant he recognized Dean.

“Hello,” Cas murmured, perhaps the most beautiful thing Dean had ever laid eyes on.

Balthazar hung back with the carriage and did a poor job trying to act like he wasn’t observing them, but Dean took Cas’s hand and smiled against his cheek.

“You look awesome,” he said.

“Thank you. The costume was Balthazar’s idea. Dean—”

“Let’s go in,” Dean said, quickly kissing his neck. “Unless you want to get frisky behind some plants.”

“I have to talk to you,” Cas insisted, though he shivered when Dean kissed his neck again, tilting his head to the side so his pulse was exposed.

“Plenty of time for that,” Dean murmured against the hollow of his throat. “I want to introduce you to my father.”

But Cas shook his head. “Now, Dean, before we go inside.”

Dean knew there was no convincing him. He led Cas into the garden where he and Sam had been hiding. Sam grinned and stuck out his hand.

“You must be Cas.”

“Your highness.”

“Sam, please. We’re going to be brothers, after all.”

“I’ll say it next time,” Cas promised.

“Can you give us a couple minutes?” Dean asked Sam, who clapped him on the back affectionately.

“Sure. I’ll see you both inside.”

When Sam had gone, Cas hung his head and took both of Dean’s hands. He held them loosely, palms clammy, fingers tight around Dean’s fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked. “Did you change your mind?”

“No.”

“Thank God.” Dean rested his forehead against Cas’s and shut his eyes. “What is it you want to tell me?”

Cas swallowed and kissed Dean before he spoke again. His lips trembled.

“When we met at the lake,” he began, pausing to clear his throat. “I showed you how to skip rocks. Do you remember?”

“Of course.”

“My father was an expert marksman. It was necessary on the road, so he taught me, assuming I’d be a merchant like him one day. I’d never struck a person until I met you.”

Dean fit his palm to Cas’s jaw and opened his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, grinning. “You never threw anything at me.”

But Cas shook his head. “Do you recall an incident in an orchard two weeks ago, when a horse threw you?”

“Some asshole hit me with an apple, spooked the horse. How’d you know about that?”

“Because I threw the apple.”

“What?” Dean asked through a laugh, waiting for the punch line. With Benny’s mouth, half the province likely knew about the apple. But the longer he stared at Cas, the more his certainty wavered. The servant in the orchard had spoken with force and been quite young. Dean called up an image of Cas that day in the royal court, bearing coins for a servant’s release; at the lake dressed in a commoner’s clothing; his anger at Dean’s attitude about social class. Dean stepped away and let go of his hands.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Cas pressed his palms together and spoke rapidly against his fingertips. “Anna is like my sister. She’s always taken care of me. When my stepmother sold her, I thought I’d never see her again, but you gave me those coins. I knew I could save her.”

Dean blinked, short of breath, like it had been punched out of him.

“I had no idea I’d meet you,” Cas continued, “let alone speak with you, or come to feel...”

“You’re not from Campbell,” Dean managed to say. Cas bit his lip and shook his head.

“I’ve lived here my whole life.” There were tears on Cas’s face but Dean didn’t allow them to move him. “My name is Castiel. My family name is Novak.”

“Novak.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s eyes drifted to Balthazar, watching them from a distance. “He’s not your cousin.”

“No.”

“Co-conspirator?”

“It was solely my mistake,” Cas said. “No one else should be punished for it.”

“So you’re…” Dean said slowly, making sure he understood. “You’re a nobleman?”

Cas shook his head.

“A commoner?”

“I’m a servant.”

“A servant?” Dean huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

Cas nodded. His eyes were glassy. When he blinked, tears spilled down his silvered cheeks. “I told you it would change your mind.”

There were footsteps on the drive. Benny’s voice came over the hedge: “Your highness, your father has summoned you to the dais.”

“In a minute,” Dean called back.

Cas kept a hand over his mouth until Benny walked away, then wilted into himself. Dean recalled the map of scars on his back, evidence of a lifetime of ill treatment. He pictured the baroness’s face and a rage built in his chest. He should’ve known to press Cas when he saw the wounds, make him talk. What would Cas face if he went home now? Or in prison? How was Dean supposed to wake up every day, knowing he was the reason Cas suffered? But he couldn’t just let him _go_.

“I did it for Anna,” Cas continued. “Not for myself. But you were so wonderful; I couldn’t...” He reached for Dean, but Dean’s pride wouldn’t bear it. He clenched his jaw and backed away another step.

“You—you can’t stay,” he bit out. He swallowed his anger, burning like the whiskey in his chest. “Go. Get the hell out of here, Cas. If they catch you here dressed like that, they’ll arrest you, and I won’t stop them.”

Cas went very still. He made a choked sound and stumbled toward the carriage, nodding toward the dirt. Dean listened to his retreating footsteps, but he didn’t follow the shadow of Cas’s wings on the ground and didn’t watch him go.

Benny discovered Dean in the garden wiping tears from his face.

“Jesus, don’t sneak up on people!” Dean snapped. “What do you want?”

“Your father’s getting impatient.”

Dean’s nails bit into his palms. “Fine.”

The glitter and frivolity of the mask couldn’t lift the fog that settled in his mind, muting the guests who danced and laughed around him. Numb, he followed Benny along the perimeter toward the dais.

“Dean!” Sam caught his elbow midway across the courtyard. His smile was broader than just about any Dean had seen him wear. Dean almost smiled himself when he noticed the reason: a pretty young woman with long gold curls and a healthy flush to her cheeks, in a dark tunic that and pants, a quiver of arrows on her back. Her left hand rested in the crook of Sam’s arm. In her right, she held a longbow.

“This is Jessica,” Sam said unnecessarily, beaming down at her. “Jess, this is my brother, Dean.”

“Your highness,” she said, dropping into a curtsey, but she kept hold of Sam’s arm and burst into laughter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Dean said. He forced a closed-mouth smile, fighting the burn in his eyes. He should be happy for Sam; he _was_ happy for Sam, but it was dampened by the feeling of something being torn out of him. He laughed it off, turning his head to observe the crowd over his shoulder, swiping at the line of wetness under both eyes when the wind blew.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked, glancing around for him. “Figured you two’d be glued at the hip from now on.”

“Cas had to leave.”

“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Jessica said with concern on her face.

“Fine, he’s just fine.” Dean swallowed and assumed a regal smile. He clasped Sam’s upper arm. “I’m real happy for you. Now get out there and dance.”

Not an hour later, the king formally announced Dean’s engagement to Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Callaway.

Sam turned to him with a bewildered expression, mouthing “ _What?”_

Dean’s cheeks burned like hellfire. Sick churned in his gut, but he merely gritted his teeth and waved to the onlookers, eyes fixed on the empty gravel drive.


	11. Chapter 11

Now that the engagement was official, the king had lifted all restrictions on Dean’s whereabouts, but he didn’t want to see or speak with anyone. For days, Dean didn’t sleep more than a few hours. He chewed his thumbnails ragged and paced a trail in front of his bedroom window, idly stroking his left shoulder, the last place Castiel had touched him.

When he could no longer stomach the same four stone walls without going mad, he took sanctuary in the stable, running a hand over Baby’s flanks for hours. Bobby looked at him with pity, uncharacteristically quiet.

A week passed and word came that Her Royal Highness Joanna Elizabeth was in route and would arrive in Lawrence within three days. The world cinched and locked around him.

Joanna Elizabeth was small and cunning, with long blonde hair, lean muscles, and a look that could kill. At their introduction, he’d barely taken her hand before she whipped it away and stalked after the servant who showed them to their places for dinner.

The hall buzzed with the din of conversation. Joanna’s fury at him was almost palpable. She held the fork in a fist and gripped her wine glass so tightly, the stem broke. It earned a look of rebuke from her mother, Ellen, the widowed queen who had ruled Callaway mercilessly since her husband’s untimely death. She glared at Dean from her place beside John. Her attendant, a skinny man with mousy hair and a lazy grin, winked from his place at her shoulder.

“Wine?” Dean offered Joanna halfway through the second course, waving over the servant with the carafe. Maybe the night wouldn’t be intolerable if he was drunk.

“God, yes,” Joanna muttered—the first thing she’d said to him all night. She slid her glass to the edge of the table. “Keep it coming.”

They simultaneously tipped back their glasses. The servant waited around to pour them a second round, which they quickly chased with a third. After his fourth, Dean’s mood was vastly improved, and Joanna had a spot of pink in her cheeks.

“You don’t seem any happier about this marriage than me,” she said frankly, slumping in her chair. She drummed her fingers on her wine glass; it rang faintly from her blunt fingernails.

“You don’t want this either?” Dean asked.

“What, move to a foreign country, marry someone I just met, give up my independence all for some treaty?” She shook her head and finished her glass. “I wish my mother had exiled me. Not that you’re exactly hard on the eyes. No offense.”

“I won’t—” Dean started. He frowned and licked his lips. “It’ll be a marriage in name only. You can have your own life.”

“They’ll expect an heir,” she said pointedly.

Dean considered her words, knowing she was right. He rubbed his neck and let his shoulders relax. “Yeah. Did you have someone back home?”

“No,” she said. “Well, nothing serious. What about you?”

The last two days stampeded him. Between the wine and the hollowness in his chest, the grief wound through his face must’ve given him away. Joanna swirled her glass and nudged his arm.

“What’s the name?”

“His name’s Cas. Castiel.”

“That’s unusual.” She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on them. “Why aren’t you marrying him?”

“He’s...” Dean took a breath and told a half-truth. “He’s a...commoner.”

“Oh. Did your father forbid it?”

“No.” Dean shook his head and motioned for another refill. “He doesn’t know.”

“I don’t care if you see him,” she offered, stabbing a piece of fruit from the dessert tray with the point of her knife. She held it out to him. “Apple?”

Dean yanked off his cloak and shirt and fell face-first onto his bed as soon as he could escape the hall. He’d be expected to bring Joanna to this bed soon and wondered how long she’d let the marriage go on before she put her knife to his throat.

He imagined it being Castiel in his bed in her place, seeing his mess of hair on the pillow every morning, kissing him awake between his legs. A ringlet of gold on his hair, like the lights had illuminated him the night they parted. He thought of Castiel and jerked himself until he was moaning, picturing him asleep along a mountain trail, in a wind-battered shack near the ocean that Dean would never see.

It might be possible to get word on him. There couldn’t be many people with such a unique name, if he kept it. There would be no reason to change it, not in Campbell. And they could meet. Dean could schedule a diplomatic trip and beg Castiel’s forgiveness. Dean would be visiting royalty, but their difference in stations wouldn’t matter as much in a country where he didn’t rule. He could stay there with Cas: see the ocean, learn to fish. Or maybe Cas would agree to come with him back to Lawrence, and Dean would set things right.

Hope carried him to his desk where he took out a sheet of paper and began a letter— _Dear Castiel_ —which he signed and concealed in a drawer. It could go out with the next caravan.

He rode for an hour with Sam in the afternoon, Baby reassuring beneath him, and went shooting with Joanna before dinner. He took her to see the lake on the way home and pitched a rock, the way Cas had taught him, cracking a smile when it skipped across the surface.

Cas’s absence throbbed, an ever-present ache in his chest. He pocketed a rock as a token of his stupidity. Eyes downcast, he fantasized the wind carried the echo of Cas’s laughter, that he could still make out the impression of their intimacy on the shore.

The morning of his wedding, Dean held the rock, heavy and warm in his palm, before getting out of bed. Flat and gray and chipped at the corner, it resembled a wing. His throat grew tight, as though he were being choked. He hid his face in the crook of his arm, taking a minute to collect his emotions before he got up and washed.

He surveyed his wedding clothes, laid out on the chaise: a deep green velvet jacket, fine linen shirt, pale breeches trimmed in brown leather. Attendants had polished his boots to an obscene shine; he avoided his reflection in the leather and got dressed.

When Sam touched his arm, indicating he should lower his chin so Sam could place the crown on his hair, Dean hesitated. He touched fingertips to each gold point, to the velvet jacket, butter-soft leather trim, but felt only the weight of a rock in his stomach.

“You okay?” Sam asked, concern pooling on his face.

“Yeah,” Dean lied, knocking Sam’s crown askew. He marched past him out of the room. “Let’s do this.”

The cathedral was in the center of town. Dean waited with his father at the side entrance. His blanched at the notion of going inside, walking up the aisle with Joanna and pledging himself to her. He bent and threw up in a flowerbed, eyes watering from the burning in his nose and throat.

“Dean?” John said. He rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder that Dean shrugged off. “Are you alright?”

Dean wiped his mouth and fussed with the decorative sword at his hip, a dagger. He refused to meet John’s eyes but took the flask when John offered it, swallowing to chase the bitter flavor. The whiskey stung his throat. “Got a lot on my mind is all.”

“Sam told me this morning that you’d found someone.”

There was no point in denying it, so he didn’t, but he didn’t confirm it either. John, sighing, sat down on the top step and leaned against the cathedral’s thick wood door.

“Why didn’t you say something at the mask?”

“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

“Because he’s a man?” John guessed. “I’ve never said a word about who you spend time with.”

“Because he’s common. You haven’t made any secret about the fact that you don’t approve of Sam’s relationship.”

“I’m coming around to that.” John swallowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He scratched at it. “Sam implied this Cas fellow was an earl’s son.”

“Sam misunderstood.” The large brass knocker seemed to taunt him from the center of the door. It would open shortly. Dean scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt, satisfied when dust clouded the polish. “Joanna is a good woman. She’ll make a good wife.”

“Do you love him?” John asked, too honest and too soon. Dean’s throat closed, heart seizing.

“Why?”

“It’s a valid question.”

“You said love’s not real.”

“I was afraid you’d never settle down if I didn’t intervene. I was trying to do what I thought was best for you. You didn’t seem to have any direction; Sam and I disagree, but he knows what he wants. With you, it was like you were waiting for something.”

John took off his crown and turned it over in his hands.

“I should’ve told you this a long time ago,” he continued. “I loved your mother. We’d known each other for many years, forced together whenever our parents met. It’s true, the treaty between our countries was based on the promise of our marriage, and I resented that at first, but once I got to know her...I would’ve married her anyway. It would’ve been my choice.”

Dean looked at him, making rapid and astonished blinks, and John lifted his face toward the sky.

“You miss her,” Dean realized, catching the ghost scent of burning wood, smoke rolling underneath Sam’s nursery door.

“I’d fight fire to get her back.” John wiped his eyes and nodded toward the waiting carriage. “Go on, get out of here.”

Dean took an aborted step. “What about Callaway?”

“Let me worry about Callaway.”

“Dad—”

But John placed the crown back on his own head and rose.

“Will you go before I change my mind? You’ve got one hell of a ride in front of you. Don’t look back.”

Dean knew he couldn’t go to the Novak manor. Cas wouldn’t be there any longer, and he didn’t trust Lucy or the baroness for information. He returned to the palace through the servants’ entrance. No one saw him come in; the staff was preoccupied with the wedding banquet they believed would be happening within the hour. With his head ducked, Dean borrowed a plain cloak from the palace laundry to conceal his clothes. Hand fisted in the front to keep it tight around his chest, he snuck out to the marketplace.

He recognized Cas’s servant, Anna, by the color of her hair. She greeted him as another customer at first, but her eyes widened when he opened the cloak and pointed to the royal crest. 

“Oh!” she gasped, bending immediately in a curtsey, averting her gaze. “Your highness.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked earnestly, leaning against the rough wood edge of the stall.

“Where’s who?” Anna asked, clutching her apron. 

“Castiel. I have to speak with him. Did he leave for Campbell yet? Please, will you tell me where I can find him?”

“You won’t have to go far.” A familiar man heaved a sack of potatoes onto the stand. He sliced the twine with a pocket knife and snapped it closed. 

“We’ve met,” Dean said, trying to recall where. The man smirked, and Dean remembered the day he returned the horse: the man in the doorway behind the baroness. 

“They call me Gabriel.”

“Where is he?” Dean urged.

“Sold.” Gabriel’s tone was curt. “Just in time, too. He came of age today.”

“Sold?” Dean could scarcely speak the word, let alone wrap his head around it, sick at his own ignorance—Castiel hadn’t been more than a few miles away this whole time. “When?”

“Just after the mask, your  _highness_ ,” Gabriel said. “Oh, congratulations on your marriage, by the way. Potatoes?”

“I’m not—” Dean took a steadying breath and hid his fists at his sides. “What household owns him?”

“The court scribe,” Anna said. 

“He’s tried to buy him for years,” Gabriel explained. “My mother was planning to grant Castiel freedom today, but I suppose his affair with  _you_  was the tipping point.”

“You never saw me,” Dean cautioned, sparing a kind look for Anna, and ran for the stables.

The scribe’s manor was stately, situated on a bare piece of land bereft of trees. It took the full force of the wind, battering the high stone walls to dull gray. Castiel wiped dust from his face and dust from his hair. He’d coughed up dust every morning he’d been here—sixteen days in total. He would never be clean again. With a large brush, he uselessly scrubbed the discolored tiles inside the front door on his hands and knees. 

“What a shame to see you reduced to this, Castiel,” Marv crooned from the long wood table. He sat between crooked stacks of books with a pen in hand. “If you’d simply reconsider, you could be sitting opposite me, having someone serve you for a change. Everything I have could be yours.”

Castiel grit his teeth. “I’d sooner sell my soul.”

“Technically, I think your soul is my property. You  _do_  belong to me.”

“I belong to no one.” 

“The law says otherwise.”

Castiel moved to the next row of tiles, slopping them with water. The iron weight on his ankle dragged behind him. He’d worn it for ten days, following his first botched escape, skin raw from constantly rubbing against the metal. The weight felt heavier today than yesterday, but he’d hardly slept since he arrived, wary of Marv’s intentions toward him, his lingering gaze. 

“I’d like to remove it,” Marv said when he saw Castiel tug the chain. “But you’ll have to promise me not to run away again.”

Castiel wondered how long it would be until his skin was a permanent open wound, festering beneath the iron ring. If he’d still be able to walk, once it came off. He’d find a file eventually, or something to work the lock. If it had been too long by then, he’d crawl on his belly to get away. 

“Poor Castiel,” Marv continued, clucking his tongue. “In love with a prince. It’s a shame he didn’t feel the same about you.” Castiel crouched in his shadow; he hadn’t heard Marv get up, but he stood over Castiel, who bristled at the unwanted touch on his neck. 

“Take your hand off me,” he ordered. The command echoed in the hall. He squeezed the brush and water oozed up between his fingers like blood.  

“Or what?”

“You will maintain a distance.” 

But Marv’s fingers pulled through his hair. It felt nothing like how Dean had touched him, neither sweet nor caring. Marv wanted to own him, break him like one tames a horse. He wrenched Castiel’s chin up, so Castiel whipped a handful of water at his face and crawled away. 

“Don’t touch me again,” he threatened. “Come any closer and I’ll report you.”

“Ah, but who would believe you?” Marv murmured, crouching down beside him, and for the first time in his life, Castiel experienced real terror. He curled his fingers around the brush, knowing the blow to Marv’s head would have to be perfect or the punishment would be his life. But before he had the chance to strike, someone shouted across the room:

“I will.”

Castiel froze when he recognized Dean’s voice, lowering the brush back into the bucket and clutching his arms to his chest. Marv removed his hand from Castiel’s neck and stepped away, fumbling to take off his hat and bow. 

“Your highness.”

“Is violating people a habit of yours?” Dean demanded, coming closer.

“Of course not!” Marv cried. “He’s lying.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean’s voice was low and deadly serious. He touched his dagger, withdrew it an inch. “If you value your life, you’ll go now and never look at him again.” 

Marv wet his lips. His eyes darted accusingly to Castiel, like he might brook an argument, but as Dean slid the dagger into view, he backed away with both hands raised. 

“Whatever your highness wishes,” Marv promised. In his hurry to leave, he knocked over a stack of books. They scattered across the floor as his footsteps retreated. A door slammed, and the hall was again quiet. 

Dean knelt beside Castiel on the wet floor.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Castiel whispered. 

“Are you okay?”

Castiel kept his face down, burning with shame under a layer of dust. Dean’s fingers brushed his jaw, gently, angling his chin up. 

“Cas? Did he hurt you?”

“There’s a key,” Castiel said, briefly motioning to his ankle. He closed his eyes and swallowed rather than look at Dean. A shuffle of books and paper, the rattle of keys striking one other, and Dean was back beside him on the floor. He tried one key after another until the cuff swung open and clattered to the floor.

“Jesus, your skin,” Dean moaned. Castiel pulled his leg up to examine it. The skin was broken but not infected, not yet. He let out a breath.

“It’ll heal. I’ve had worse injuries.” He scooted to sit against the wall and pushed the bucket of water away. Dean stayed where he was and hung his head and spoke quietly. 

“Cas, I’m so sorry. I promised if you were honest it wouldn’t change things, and I fucked it up right out of the gate.”  

“What are you doing here?”

Dean bit his lip. “Came to rescue you?”

“Did it look like I needed to be rescued?” Castiel snapped. 

“Uh.” Dean rubbed his neck and glanced around the room, gestured to the irons. “A little, yeah.” He reached for Castiel’s hand, but Castiel curled his together and held them against his chest. 

“Don’t,” he warned. 

“Don’t what? Don’t touch you?”

“I’m—” There was dirt on his hands, dust on his cheeks and hair, blood on his ankle. “I only pretended to be a nobleman to save Anna’s life. I’m not who you think I am, your highness.”

“Cas, please...please call me Dean.”

Miserable, Castiel shook his head and wished that Dean would hold him and wished that Dean would go. “I can’t share your life,” he said. 

“Says who?”

“We might as well be different species.”

“For what it’s worth, I liked your wings.” Dean fit a hand to his jaw in spite of the dust and dirt. “Castiel, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I should’ve never told you to go.”

The sound of his name, his  _real_  name, from Dean’s mouth gave Castiel the courage to look at him, resplendent in a jacket the color of his eyes, a circle of gold in his hair. He marveled that such a man knelt in front of him.

“Say it again?” he murmured.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Castiel laughed, planting a kiss in Dean’s palm. “I meant my name.”

Dean whispered it against his lips. When they kissed, it tasted clean. 

Everything was put right again. Dean was with him, Castiel was safe, and he wouldn’t have to stay at the scribe’s manor any longer. Dean would see to that. They would go somewhere, anywhere, together. 

But the mask, Dean’s rejection, the engagement—the reason for Dean’s clothing became clear. Castiel made a despaired noise and pulled away. 

“You’re married,” he remembered and covered his mouth. His voice broke on the last word.  

Dean cradled Castiel’s face in both hands, thumbs stroking gently across his cheekbones. He shook his head. “I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got feelings for someone.” Dean traced Castiel’s lower lip, leaning forward to kiss it. “That’d be you, by the way. Are you still interested?”

“You want to marry a peasant?”

“I want to marry  _you_ , if you’ll have me. I swear I’ll make it up to you. You can have all the land you want at the palace. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again.”

“What about the others?”

“They can come with you, work anywhere they want.”

Castiel licked his lips. “And if I refuse?”

“There’re no strings here. You say no, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, even if you don’t ever want to see me again.”

Castiel knocked the bucket over when he threw his arms around Dean’s neck. Water ran in the channels between tiles and soaked his pants, but he didn’t care. He climbed onto Dean’s lap, clasping his neck and shoulder to steady himself, and kissed Dean over and over, his wet palm leaving an impression on Dean’s shirt, a soapy handprint that remained even after they finally broke apart.  

At Dean’s suggestion, they rode directly to the hillside chapel. Castiel held tight to Dean’s back as Baby ran. He would’ve preferred his family be present at his wedding—Anna would cry; Balthazar would insist on walking him down the aisle—but they would understand. 

Inside the church, Dean dipped his handkerchief into the vessel of holy water and cleaned Castiel’s ankle and face and hands. He kissed him, and together they walked the aisle and knelt. 

In the nearby woods, Dean laid Castiel on his back. He removed his clothes and laid them aside. With reverent lips, he kissed weeks of misery from Castiel’s skin. Castiel buried his fingers in Dean’s hair and shut his eyes. He gasped when Dean flattened his tongue over Castiel’s nipple, curling his fingers in the hair at the back of Dean’s head to anchor his mouth in place. 

He burned when Dean rutted above him, sparking with life in every inch of his body, to his toes. Sunlight through the trees danced across his eyelids. This is what happiness must feel like: an indescribable joy in the way their bodies and hands fit together, as if they’d been created solely for one another. 

Baby carried them, sated and bruised, home to the palace. They rode over the main bridge and inside the walls, trotting through the courtyard. Castiel ignored the whispering and wide-eyed stares, locking his arms around Dean’s waist and resting a cheek against his shoulder blade.  

They turned the horse over to a gruff, ruddy-faced man named Bobby who called Dean an idiot but shook Castiel’s hand. 

“You take care of each other,” he grumbled. Castiel instantly liked him. 

In the privacy of Dean’s bedroom, _their_ bedroom, Castiel luxuriated in a large copper tub until the water grew cold. Dean sat at the side and worked soap into Castiel’s hair, messing it to a fury. Castiel rolled his eyes and sunk under to rinse off. 

He changed into one of Dean’s nightshirts, white linen that fell above his knees, and Dean rang for food. They ate quietly by the window overlooking the palace grounds, a part of them always touching. Dean eased a thumb over Castiel’s chin to clean away grease, then replaced the thumb with his mouth. He slid a hand from Castiel’s knee to his inner thigh and Castiel didn’t think about food after that. 

Later, when they fell exhausted into bed, he slept with his head on Dean’s tattoo. 

Dean woke him with a kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, your highness.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched. “It’ll take a while to get used to that.”

“How about husband?”

“I like that one.”

“Good,” Dean said, kissing him on the lips. “Because my father requested an audience with mine.”

“Oh.”

“We could still make a run for it.”

“Meeting your father is inevitable,” Castiel said. He buried a yawn in the pillow and stretched his arms and legs before rolling onto his stomach. Dean traced the scars on his back.

“Are you afraid?” he asked. 

“No,” Castiel said, smiling, and he smiled when he knelt beside Dean as the king gave his blessing.


	12. Epilogue

The rooster announced morning from his perch just outside the bedroom window. Dean rolled over with a grunt. It was still dark out. He ought to get his father to issue a royal edict that banned crowing before five o’clock.

“I’m going to strangle that thing,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around his head to muffle it.

“You say that every morning,” Cas slurred into his pillow.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“Mhm.”

The rooster continued to crow. Dean thought of getting up to shut the window, but he didn’t want to get out of bed. Almost ten months of waking up in a bed with Cas, and he still shivered at his luck. He spun the ring on his left hand and hoped he would never grow complacent.

It was a good-sized room. Smaller than the one at the palace, but plenty of space for the two of them. Cas said it had been his father’s. Dean often thought of the joy on Cas’s face when they’d crossed the threshold as husbands and stood in the doorway to the empty room. In her haste to leave following her banishment from Lawrence, Naomi had taken little with her back to Campbell, leaving nearly everything behind—including Gabriel, who had moved out of the manor only last month when he began a law apprenticeship.

Cas yawned and rolled onto his back undisturbed, clearly intent on going back to sleep, but Dean had other ideas. His hands played underneath Cas’s night shirt, pushing it up to his hips. Dean settled between his legs, skimming his hands up Cas’s sides. He kissed from his stomach to his chest, brushing his lips over each of Cas’s nipples, watching him shift and arch up in response. Dean grinned against his sternum and kissed the healed starburst tattoo on Cas’s chest before nosing along his neck. He dropped a kiss just beneath Cas’s ear and Cas uttered a soft noise, making Dean’s heart race.

“You want me inside you, sweetheart?” he murmured. Cas hummed in response.

There was no rush, so Dean walked his fingers down the ladder of Castiel’s ribs, kissed his neck and under his arms, the suntanned skin on his forearms. Each finger and fingertip. Over his heart. Castiel stirred, stretching his legs, so his hips ground up into Dean’s chest. He was aroused. Dean groaned, surging down his body, and licked into his navel.

“You taste like salt,” he said, pressing his nose into Castiel’s belly. Castiel threaded his fingers into Dean’s hair and gently pulled it.

“We’ll go to the lake today. We haven’t been in a while.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“I told you…” Castiel yawned, reaching his free hand to cover it. “Running a farm is hard work.”

“Yeah, well, I love it.”

“We’ll have to give it up eventually.”

“We’ll have a garden at the palace. Sam and Jess can come here. Or maybe I’ll talk you into letting me abdicate.” Cas made a disapproving noise. Dean gently bit the skin on Cas’s stomach, immediately chasing it with his tongue. “Market today?”

“We have an unfair advantage because of your position,” Cas reminded him.

“ _Our_ position.”

“They want to see the prince who sells potatoes.”

“They want to see _you_. How ‘bout we only sell what needs to be sold, pack it in early, then go swimming. Deal?”

“We can go to market tomorrow. I want a day with you. We should invite your brother and Jess.”

“They don’t need to see my bare ass fucking you in the water.”

Cas censured him with a one-eyed look. “You’d survive a day of just swimming.”

Instead of arguing, Dean sat back on his knees and stretched his lips around the plummy head of Cas’s cock. He took several inches into his mouth, then slid off. Cas whined at the suction and gripped Dean’s hair, balling his other hand into the sheet. Dean took him deeper, swallowing his bitter flavor. Cas arched his back, thrusting up into Dean’s mouth, panting his name.

“We’ll visit them at the palace this week,” Cas conceded after he came in Dean’s mouth. Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned.

“Sounds like a plan. I can drop by Benny’s, say hi to his little monster.” He tucked his face between Cas’s neck and shoulder and breathed him in, holding on until Cas’s heart rate calmed down. He opened his eyes.

“Morning,” said Dean, staring into Cas’s puffy squint.

“I’m not sure who needs to be strangled more, you or the rooster.”

“You’re the one who always says chores won’t wait.”

Cas stretched his arms over his head, loose and content. He relaxed with a sigh. “Do them for a decade and I’ll resurvey your enthusiasm.”

“Sorry.” Dean kissed along his jaw in contrition as Cas rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Can I bring you breakfast in bed?”

“Hannah has probably started it. I should go help her.”

Dean grinned against his cheek. “I’ll get it. I gave the staff a few days off. Figured we could handle everything by ourselves for a week.”

Cas put his arms around Dean’s back and hummed against his hair.

“Thank you.”

“And it means we can be as loud as we want,” Dean whispered in his ear. He rubbed his erection against Cas’s thigh to emphasize the point. Cas smacked him.

He swallowed his rebuke when Dean coated his fingers in oil, brought them between Cas’s legs, patiently stretching him open until Cas’s body relaxed and he began to writhe, moaning against the sheets. Face pink, chest flushed where his nightshirt hung open, Cas nodded that he was ready and canted his hips.

Dean pushed inside and the world fell away.

The sky had begun to brighten, suffused with orange and pink at the horizon when they went out into the garden. The rooster was quiet, plants shiny with dew, the air warm and fragrant. Balthazar’s household wasn’t up yet, windows still dark in the distance. Maybe they would see him later. Castiel let the horses out to graze so he could their stalls; Dean collected eggs and chased a wandering chicken back into its pen.

Not an hour later, they jogged a shortcut through the orchard to the lake.

“When will the apples be ready?” Dean asked, swatting at a branch in their way.

“Not for another month, at least. You have time to practice your aim.”

“Oh, I’ve been practicing.” Dean winked. “Race you?”

They sprinted the rest of the way—Castiel won—and shed their clothes, pausing to catch their breaths on the shore. The sun crept toward the horizon, gold over the treetops. Hands clasped, water sloshing around their ankles, they watched the last stars fade. Dean broke the surface of the lake with a well-aimed rock, whooping when his skipped father than Castiel’s, into the mist hanging over the water that blurred the shore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** _Ever After_ hit theaters my junior year of high school. It was a feminist spin on the Cinderella story and a formative movie for me. I collected the postcards and pinned them to my bedroom wall, followed tips in Seventeen to mimic the natural makeup Drew Barrymore wore in the movie. I would've given anything to wear her dress and wings from the masquerade. I'm still in love with Dougray Scott's prince, spoiled and endearing and beautiful—one of the few people who can rival our Mr. Ackles, I think. I loved imagining Dean and Cas in their places. I've always wanted to write a fairytale. Thanks for giving me the opportunity. 
> 
> Thanks to Vera and Jad for beta reading; to Ash for her support; to diminuel for assuring me a fairytale setting was not ridiculous; and to quickreaver, who will likely never see this message, but helped break through my writing block and give me the kick I needed to get this done. ♥
> 
> [art masterpost](http://kamicom.livejournal.com/5999.html) (please go give kami love!) • [my tiny writing playlist](http://www.8tracks.com/museaway/a-world-above-water) • [inspiration board](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-a-world-above-water/)
> 
> The tumblr post for this fic [is here](http://www.museaway.com/post/130622798670/a-world-above-water-story-by-museaway-art-by) if you'd like to share it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/museawayfic) and [tumblr](http://museaway.tumblr.com).


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